


Destiel: I Need You

by Gemminycricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bunker Sex, Castiel Deals With Human Emotions, Castiel Gives Oral Sex, Castiel/Dean Winchester Feels, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Dean Gives Oral Sex, Dean Needs Castiel, Depression, Fallen Angels, Guilty Castiel, Hand Jobs, Human Castiel, Human Castiel in the Bunker, M/M, Masturbation, Not Canon Compliant, POV Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Secret Relationship, Sex in the Impala, Sex on Furniture, Shower Sex, Sleeping Together, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-01-19 00:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12399519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemminycricket/pseuds/Gemminycricket
Summary: The angels fell. The angels fell and Castiel knows it was his fault. Sam and Dean take the newly human Castiel in to live with them in the bunker as he struggles to come to terms with his newfound emotions, including his longing for Dean. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't help wanting Dean... and maybe, just maybe, Dean wants Castiel too.(I'm really bad at writing summaries. But this fic involves quite a bit of fairly graphic smut, and deals with depression and guilt)





	1. Home

For the first couple of weeks, Castiel slept. The soft and quiet confines of his bed had looked so appealing when the world had fallen, quite literally, around him. He had collapsed beneath the covers without hesitance, with only the very distant idea of one day resurfacing. There, under the layers of blankets, with his head buried beneath his pillow, Cas could pretend all was well. In the tranquillity of the bunker, he could almost convince himself that the world outside wasn’t in turmoil. Or at the very least that it wasn’t his fault.

It was a very short-lived fantasy.

Cas often dreamed, and it wasn’t all bad despite what the wrangled state of his sheets the next morning would suggest. The nightmares were consistent—aggressively so—waking him, shaking, and sticky from sweat, his lips and mouth dry. While this happened most nights, the sense of dread never escaped him. He was always alarmed after opening his eyes to the dark, cavernous ceiling above him and thinking it was a tomb. The claustrophobia of it all was enough to deprive him of breath.

 But there too came the good dreams. They were few and far between… and they were unwelcome.

Castiel had to question where in his subconscious he believed he had the right to those rare restful nights. How could he possibly grant himself any peace when his brothers and sisters were out there lost and barricaded from Heaven?  Whenever a dream was followed by a subsequent nightmare, Cas took the onslaught of panic deservedly—gripping the sheets in trembling hands and allowing the dead weight to fall upon his chest. Though, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep it from alleviating. Eventually, he could breathe again and the heat left his face, and his sweat turned cold. By the time morning came, it had dried, almost as if nothing had ever happened. But of course, the pattern would repeat itself all over again a mere few hours later.

That was until Sam and Dean returned to the bunker, their footfalls heavy in the hallway as they took to tending to their wounds and preparing their used weapons for whatever hunt was to follow. Castiel listened to their movements and pondered what it was they were doing, at least with as little curiosity as he could muster. Truthfully, he stopped listening once he was sure neither of them was especially hurt. Quickly losing interest, Cas turned dismissively on his side with his back to the door and thought briefly that he ought to get up soon and greet them. He thought he would. Soon. Maybe later. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.

But the Winchesters had other ideas.

Dean was the first to venture to his room; Castiel could tell from the sound of his heavy footsteps as he approached, and by the brash way he pushed the door open without knocking first. Sam always knocked. There was a sharp intake of breath and then a disgusted groan. Cas cautiously peered out from his cocoon of blankets and observed Dean who had his mouth and nose covered with his sleeve, his eyes wide in absolute horror.

“Cas, it fucking reeks in here,” Dean announced, his voice muffled against his arm, “have you gotten out of bed even once since I left?”

“Yes. To urinate. Amongst other bathroom matters,” Castiel answered honestly.

“Well thank god for small mercies,” Dean coughed. He tentatively stepped further into the room and approached Castiel with the same wariness he would normally reserve for a rotting corpse. “Have you showered? Eaten?”

“I’ve slept,” Castiel told him plainly. He slipped the blanket back up over the top of his head and shut his tired eyes.

“Right. Well… you can’t keep stewing in your own juices,” Dean prodded him in the back.

“Says who?” Cas sighed heavily.

“My nose. Seriously, can’t you smell that? Doesn’t it bother you?”

Castiel hesitated before giving a purposeful sniff. Admittedly, it wasn’t pleasant. Actually, it was downright awful. He wrinkled his nose and attempted unsuccessfully to mask his disgust. There wasn’t an appropriate argument to offer in his defence. He understood that this wasn’t normal, nor was it acceptable. Feeling ashamed, he tried to deny it.

“Not really. It’s… manageable,” he said finally.

“Manageable my ass.” Dean prodded him in the back again. When Cas didn’t immediately answer him, Dean ripped the blankets off of him and groaned again at the sudden and intense odour of dry sweat that wafted from the material. “Get up. You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Dean ordered.

Cas blinked painfully at the onslaught of light and at the cold that tickled at his exposed skin—his pyjama pants had rolled up at the ankles and he’d opened up the buttons on his shirt, revealing his bare chest. Dean stood over him and waited impatiently for him to get up. Cas still couldn’t find it in himself to move beyond what was required to turn from his left side to his right and back again. Even that was sometimes too exhausting. Oftentimes he would remain in the same cramped position for hours on end because it seemed more tiring to move out of it.

Dean’s expression softened and he lowered his sleeve from his nose, remaining apprehensive as he placed a gentle hand on Cas’ arm. Gently, he rubbed the length between his shoulder and elbow. “Cas, come on. Just… how bout you get up, take a shower, and I’ll get you something to eat? We’ll start there, yeah?”

Every part of Cas wanted to say no. To retrieve his blankets and hide beneath them. To be swallowed by the four walls of his room. But he didn't say it. The only thing worse than being granted the peace of dreams was to deny the Winchesters the appreciation they deserved. They had taken him in when all reason dictated that they ought to turn him away. They had given him a room to call his own and had given him free rein to the contents of the bunker, including the food in their fridge and full access to their bathroom. They had given him a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush. Before leaving on their hunt, Sam had moved the television into his room for him, but Cas hadn't so much as turned it on. Sam and Dean had gone beyond what he deserved to make him feel welcome and comfortable, giving him safety when he ought not to take it. After so many mistakes, each one somehow even more treacherous and irreversible than the last, he couldn't begin to fathom what it was that made him forgivable.

“Okay,” he said quietly and slowly sat upright. His muscles were tense, and the pain worsened still as he shuffled his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. As he considered it, he realised he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he last got out of bed.

“There you go,” Dean smiled softly, his green eyes tainted with concern, “feels good to stretch, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cas agreed. He lied. His entire body protested at the effort, but he masked his discomfort with a forced yawn.

“You get in the shower, and I’ll make a food run,” Dean instructed.

“Okay.” Cas was good at giving one-word answers. Since he had first arrived on the Winchesters’ doorstep, very weak and very human, the one-word answers had sufficed. He supposed the two of them had made ways to interpret what was being left unsaid.

Dean disappeared from the doorway and Cas eventually followed after him. He trod barefoot down the hallway toward the bathroom, pausing only to retrieve clean towels from the linen closet. As he stopped, he could hear the quiet murmurings of Sam and Dean in the next room. There was the quiet metallic clatter of Dean's keys as he picked them up, and the two thuds of Sam’s boots as he kicked them off.

“He’s a mess,” Dean said, his voice hushed, “I went in there and it smelt like something died.”

“Do you think he moved at all?” Sam asked softly.

“Probably not. And I don’t think he has eaten in days.”

“But you got him up?”

“For now. I convinced him to take a shower. Can you change his sheets? Before he can sink back into the old ones.”

“Of course,” Sam assured him.

 Castiel listened harder and could distantly hear the bunker door opening and closing a few seconds later. He dipped his head and absently tucked the towel under his arm. Sam turned the corner and paused when he saw him, and he quickly offered a kind smile. But it was dipped in pity.

“Hey, Cas. How’s it going?” Sam asked, approaching him slowly. As he drew nearer, Cas recognised the exact second Sam caught a whiff of him. He tried to appreciate the effort Sam put into masking his repulsion.

“Fine,” Cas answered. One word.

 When the pity reached Sam’s eyes, Castiel knew he understood that fine meant the exact opposite. Cas was far from fine; maybe even the furthest he had ever been. After the chaos and destruction he had caused in Heaven a few years before, Cas hadn’t believed there existed the possibility he could do worse. That there was any more damage to be done. But he had been wrong. The angels had fallen, their wings stripped bare, their entire lives torn apart. Where before he had killed thousands, he may have killed hundreds more and devastated a million others. There was no ‘fine’ after that. Graceless, he had no hope of rectifying what he had done. And he had no strength left in him to try.

“Good… good,” Sam nodded dismally. It was clear he didn’t believe Cas even for a second. “You jump in the shower… I’ll just, uh, go to my room.” Sam slowly angled himself around Cas and took hesitant steps in the opposite direction from his own room, toward Castiel’s. Cas nodded after him and wordlessly stepped into the bathroom.

It was clear he didn’t believe Sam even for a second.

After Cas showered, he wrapped himself in a towel and treaded back to his room, only to find his bed made with fresh sheets and blankets, his pillowcases switched out for brand new ones. When he heard the faint rustling of movement, he peeked his head around the corner and witnessed Sam retreating from the bathroom he had just vacated: Cas’ dirty clothes clasped in his arms. Cas felt a quick pang of guilt. The boys had been gone for a little over a week, assumedly sleeping for only a couple hours at a time, hunting tirelessly for whichever awful creature had been taunting the town and killing innocent civilians. They had been busy saving lives, and Cas had been moping on his own.

He had offered to join them, watching them when they packed up their duffel bags for a long drive. His heart had yearned to follow them. He always felt happiest at their side, and, honestly, he had been afraid of what he might do when left to his own vices. Cas couldn’t trust himself. Particularly as his own humanity was still brand new to him. But they’d insisted he stayed, reminding him of the dangers that lay just beyond the bunker. The angels wanted his head on a pike. And, as a human, he was far more vulnerable to such things. While their point had been valid, and quite reasonable, Cas couldn’t help but feel isolated by their departure. Betrayed, almost, when the door had shut behind them and he had been left as the sole occupant of the oversized bunker.

And so it had been too easy to give into the temptation of his bed. And it was there that he had stayed. Until now.

He did feel marginally better now that he had showered. Certainly a lot cleaner and more awake. But it was impossible to know how long the sensation would last. At least he had the sense now not to retreat back to his bed; new sheets or not. It was only a matter of time until Dean returned, and Cas didn’t wish to disappoint him by going back to the same pathetic position he had been in before. Sam and Dean deserved better than that. At the very least, he could find a way to be of some use to them. Even if only a little. After dressing in an oversized shirt and a loose pair of jeans, he made his way to the kitchen and peered at the cluttered remnants of what the Winchesters had left behind. Dirty dishes had been left soaking in the sink, most of the water having since evaporated. The benches were littered with crumbs and questionable stains from whatever sauces and drinks had been spilled. And Cas was sure that, were he to investigate further, he would find food turning mouldy or sour in the fridge. He realised he could start here.

It seemed ridiculous to think how far he had fallen: one day spent protecting the brothers from mortal peril and aiding them in their mission to save the world, and the next day spent washing their dishes and emptying the trash. It hardly seemed enough. But what more could be done? What use was he to them? What was he even capable of? He had no answers, and so he took to the domestic duties without complaint. He started by scrubbing the dishes, rinsing and drying them before tucking them away where they belonged. Then he wiped down the countertops and stove top, taking extra care to clear the crusted stains away. Lastly, he emptied the expired contents of their fridge and pantry and disposed of it with the rest of the trash.

“Well look at you, up and about,” Dean said proudly from the doorway.

Cas jumped, startled, having missed the sound of Dean returning. Heat crept up into his cheeks and he felt inexplicably embarrassed at being caught. He cleared his throat awkwardly and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I had to do… something,” he murmured and shrugged dismissively.

“This is more than something. I was dreading having to clean this mess the whole time I was gone,” Dean grinned. He pushed his shoulder off the doorframe and held up two bags of takeout food for Cas to see. “Do you wanna eat in here or the war room?”

“Either is fine,” Cas said.

“War room then. Grab us some beers, would you?” Dean called, already heading back the way he had come. As Cas pulled three beers from the fridge, he could hear the distant shout of Dean looking for Sam.

Castiel felt undeniably better at having them home. The bunker didn’t feel so empty and suffocating when he didn’t have to reside there alone. Hearing their voices in the next room reminded him that not all had perished. While Heaven was in ruins and the angels lost to the confusion of Earth, the Winchesters, for once, were safe and well. And for that, Cas had to be thankful. But there was an underlying and immovable fear that his presence would be their undoing. For whatever good there was in their lives, he somehow had a way of turning it all bad; though he never meant to. His hands seemed to corrupt everything with a single touch—it was only a matter of time.

 ‘ _When?_ ’ instead of _‘If?’_.

Cas paused just beyond the doorway to the war room as he heard Sam and Dean talking quietly amongst themselves. There was the rustling of paper as one or both of them cleared the table and began depositing the food onto it.

“He cleaned the kitchen. Nicely dressed and everything. Maybe he’s all right?” Dean said.

“You really believe that?” Sam asked doubtfully.

There was a brief pause before Dean sighed. “Not at all. He’s gone off the deep end. But I don’t know how to help him.”

“I don’t know either,” Sam admitted. “And this isn’t something that’s just gonna pass on its own. The only thing we can do is keep looking for a way to send the angels back to Heaven.”

“Oh yeah, that’s all,” Dean scoffed, “give me a real challenge. Like… blow up the moon or hook up with Scarlett Johansson.”

“We’ll find a way,” Sam decided, determined as ever.

“And Cas? We try to ship the god squad back upstairs, and what do we do with him?” Dean asked tentatively.

“He has to stay here. The bunker is the safest place for him.”

There were some illegible murmurings which Cas couldn’t understand, though he got the sense that Dean agreed. They had already decided that Cas couldn’t be trusted to rectify the mess he had made. He dipped his head in shame, the internal guilt intensifying. His mistakes had become their burden, and he wished only to take it from them. He never expected or wanted them to suffer the consequences of his actions.

“Hey, Cas, what’s the holdup?!” Dean called.

Cas immediately stepped around the corner and placed the beers down onto the table, and then sat down opposite them. He crossed his ankles and sipped timidly at his beer, acutely aware of the uncomfortable silence. Looking up, he realised he was under their scrutiny. Sam and Dean threw purposeful glances between each other and Cas, Dean clearly nagging Sam with his eyes to say something. Cas furrowed his brow in confusion.

“You heard everything, didn’t you?” Sam asked gently.

“No,” Castiel answered far too quickly, again offering just the one word. Sam shifted awkwardly in his chair and ran a disgruntled hand through his hair.

“You’re a shit liar,” Dean sniffed, unimpressed, and unwrapped his burger.

“Dean—” Sam nudged Dean’s arm, casting a glare at him.

“I am,” Cas agreed with Dean. It often felt easier to agree rather than argue, even if he felt worse for it. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t any validity to Dean’s comment. Lying didn’t come naturally to him, and he was slow to learn at the best of times. Now, with his mind elsewhere, all previous teachings had been forgotten.

Dean bit into his burger and spoke to Cas with his mouth full, “Ha angs foolin wahant or foot.”

“Pardon?” Cas hadn’t understood.

“The angels falling wasn’t your fault,” Sam translated easily, much to Castiel’s surprise.

“You understood that?”

“You get used to it. Unfortunately,” Sam explained and wrinkled his nose.

“Fook oof,” Dean said around his food, wet flecks of spit and bread flying from his mouth. Cas absently wiped the table clean with a napkin. This time even he understood, and tried not to smile at the vulgar language.

“Dean, you’re disgusting,” Sam shook his head disapprovingly.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Cas disagreed, tilting his head to the side in mild amusement.

“Then what would you say?” Sam blinked in surprise. Both that Cas disagreed, but also at hearing him utter more than three words at a time.

“That it’s disgusting behaviour. Dean himself is relatively more agreeable. He has superb manners whenever he wishes to use them, which, admittedly, isn’t as often as it should be.”

Dean grinned smugly, his cheeks full and puffed out like a chipmunk’s. His eyes seemed to light up and crinkled slightly at the edges. Cas smiled fondly and averted his eyes, turning his attention to his own burger before it could get cold. While Dean could eat almost anything at any time, Cas was put off by anything that sat out long enough to get cold or soggy.

“You two—” Sam muttered under his breath and allowed his sentence to trail off unfinished. Neither Cas nor Dean bothered to pursue the end of it. Perhaps neither of them needed to.

Dean forced himself to swallow before he finished chewing, and coughed, “shut up and eat your rabbit food.” He gestured at Sam’s salad, his expression disgruntled as he eyed the plastic container of greens. “If you can. If you ask me, that’s not food.” Dean looked to Cas expectantly, his piercing gaze conveying that he ought to agree. “Cas, would you call that food?”

Castiel considered it and looked to Sam apologetically. “It’s, uh… edible. But I wouldn’t choose to make it a staple of my diet.” He decided that was a sufficient answer that would have to appease the both of them. Quickly, he resumed drinking his beer and then bit into his burger. With his mouth full, he hoped neither of them would attempt to ask any more questions.

Dean straightened his back and sat more upright in his chair, seemingly satisfied with Castiel’s response. Sam rolled his eyes and pointedly dug into his salad with vigour, eating it happily just to spite Dean. Not that Dean seemed to notice—his attention was already elsewhere.

“So what _did_ you do while we were gone?” Dean asked curiously, “Netflix? Reading? ... Porn?”

“Dean—” Sam started, correcting him on his manners. But by the disinterest in his eyes, it was apparent that his heart simply wasn't in it. He knew by now that Dean would persist, no matter if he was told not to.

“Hey, I’m not judging. It’s what I would do,” Dean said and raised his hands in a display of self-defence.

“We know,” Cas and Sam said in sync with the same monotonous tone.

“So? You must have done something?” Dean continued without pause, his eyes pointed and eager. He clearly wanted to his suspicions to be proven wrong. He wanted his worries to be relieved—to hear that there wasn’t anything broken here to fix; because he didn’t know how. Cas realised that Dean was desperate to know that everything would be okay.

“I, uh, slept mostly,” Cas admitted reluctantly. “But I watched a lot of Netflix too.” He quickly tacked on the lie and hoped it was more convincing than the last.

Dean glanced at Sam who shook his head. Cas remembered that the cord to the television was still coiled on the floor, unplugged. Sam must have seen it earlier when he went into his room to change the sheets. Dean’s hope died in an instant and he picked at his burger, his appetite diminished.

“Shit liar,” Dean repeated. He picked up his beer and drank half of it in a few quick swigs.

Sam shifted in his chair, most likely kicking Dean’s foot under the table. Cas propped his elbow on the table and pressed his cheek against his open palm. It seemed that no matter whether he lied or told the truth, he would always disappoint them. He wished to do better. To be better. But he didn't know how. He couldn't think where to begin. Despite this, he was determined to try. 

“Sorry,” he sighed dejectedly.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Sam assured him quickly, “we get it. Things are hard right now… just take your time.”

“I don’t really need time,” he said carefully, “I’m managing. I cleaned the kitchen.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sam said.

“It kept me busy,” Castiel explained. “Busy is good.”

 “And the kitchen looks great,” Dean interjected appreciatively. Glancing over, Cas saw that Dean had almost finished eating already, whereas he had barely even begun.

Eating seemed like an exhausting effort to Cas. He hadn’t expected the pangs of hunger to find him so frequently, or the satisfaction that came from eating to be so short-lived. He hadn’t understood just how extensive the variety of options were—and they were all at his disposal. The choices had overwhelmed him right from the beginning. Honestly, he was rather bothered by the whole ordeal. And the bathroom requirements that followed were even more frustrating and tedious. He still didn't know how humans withstood all these daily needs. It left him feeling vulnerable. And vulnerability, whilst nothing new, still didn’t come easily to him.

Though that wasn’t to say there wasn’t any joy in it. There was flavour. To everything. While he had certainly come across some he never wished to encounter again, he had similarly found many he enjoyed. PB&J sandwiches still claimed rights as his favourite—jelly, not jam (he found jam unsettling, and believed it had something to do with the texture); grape, not raspberry or strawberry or apricot; and crunchy peanut butter, not smooth. Dean had learned this early on and had often made it for him before he and Sam had left on their hunt. And Dean knew exactly how he liked it, without Cas ever having to say.

There was something especially gratifying in that, that made food not only manageable but also pleasant. Almost worthwhile, even.

He, too, found more appreciation for coffee. His usual black coffee was now doused with milk and sugar—two sugars to be exact—which was another preference Dean had come to learn within the first couple days of Cas taking residence in the bunker. Each morning before they had left, Cas had woken up and gone to the kitchen to find a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him, and it was always just right.

But when Dean had left, all these things had left with him, and Cas could never accurately replicate it. Something was always wrong, and he still didn’t understand what it was or why. He silently hoped that with Dean’s return all these comforts would come back to him too.

Dean caught Castiel staring at him and smiled awkwardly, his green eyes searching Cas’ blue ones for the reason behind his intrigue, but it was impossible to tell. Even Cas wasn’t entirely sure why. It had been so long since he had seen him last, and he supposed he was looking to see if anything had changed. But no. There remained the familiar stubble on Dean’s chin and the faint freckles across his nose and the pale flecks of gold around the dark pupils of his eyes; even his hair was just as dishevelled as ever, if not more so since he hadn’t yet showered since coming home.

“Cas?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed distractedly. His burger had been left forgotten and the remainder of his beer sat untouched.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Dean laughed.

“I don’t understand,” Cas said, confused. Sam chuckled and gathered all the empty containers, wrappers, and his beer bottle, and disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen.

“Why are you staring? Did you miss me or something?” Dean asked, half teasingly.

“A little,” Cas admitted, lying only about the amount. He always missed Sam and Dean whenever they were apart. But, since losing his grace, he felt more aggrieved by the distance. By the utter isolation. He found he didn’t like to be alone. Since they’d left, Cas sometimes caught himself thinking of Dean and missing him. It had been difficult to ignore his absence.

“You could have called… you know, if you wanted,” Dean said, his voice going quiet. He started fiddling with his beer bottle, peeling off the label slowly and crumpling it into a small ball.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Cas told him, “you and Sam were busy. I had no right nor reason to interfere.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You think I don’t get bored out there? All the mind-numbing research before the action?” Dean said, “That and being in such close quarters with Sam for so long… like, I’m used to it, but I’ll always welcome hearing another friendly voice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Cas promised. He was honestly relieved. As he’d had nothing but time to dwell and sink further into his grief, a minute to call Sam and/or Dean would have been a welcome escape. He’d actually hoped that either one of them might have called to ask for his assistance: to pick his brains for answers, or to have him sift through one or more thick tomes from the shelves for information. But they either hadn’t needed him or had sought another source as not to bother him.

“I missed you too, you know,” Dean admitted, looking away.

“Really?” Cas asked in disbelief.

“Well, you know, I was worried. I mean… you showed up here without your grace, all dinged up and exhausted. Then we take off barely a week later. Kinda felt like an ass for leaving you alone,” Dean explained quickly. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and kicked his feet up onto the table. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the seat, crossing his arms over his chest. As Dean moved, his shirt slipped to reveal dried blood across his collarbone. Cas quickly stood up to investigate.

“You’re hurt,” Cas stated. He knelt down at Dean’s side and took his arm into his hands, manoeuvring him gently so he could get a better look at his collarbone. Dean’s eyes flew open and he looked at him, surprised. Cas pulled the material of Dean’s shirt down slightly and prodded carefully around the wound. From what he could tell, it wasn’t bad at all, but he knew humans were prone to infection and didn’t dare risk it. “How’d this happen?” he asked.

Dean shrugged noncommittedly, “I dunno. Teeth or nails. It’s usually one or the other.”

“You should be taking better care of yourself,” Castiel lectured. He pulled at Dean’s arm and gestured for the hunter to follow him. He needed to clean the crusted blood away so he could get a proper look.

Dean rolled his eyes but didn't argue and stood to follow him. Cas led him to the bathroom and forced him to sit down on the edge of the bathtub before looking for a clean towel he could use. He had to duck out to the linen closet and took a short detour to find bandages before returning. Cas was pleased to see that Dean had stayed where he'd left him.

“Shirt off, please,” Castiel instructed.

“I’m good, but thanks,” Dean protested stubbornly. He shifted awkwardly, his cheeks flushing a little red.

Cas turned to the sink and glared at him over his shoulder. “Don’t be petulant.”

“I’m not. You’re just making a big deal out of nothing.”

"If it's nothing then you'll just let me slap a band-aid on it so we can be done with it," Cas was determined. Dean rolled his eyes and pouted his lips slightly, but finally did as he was told and tugged his shirt off. He dropped it on the floor and then rested his elbows on his thighs.

Cas nodded approvingly. He rinsed the towel under the tap and tended to Dean’s injury with care, ignoring Dean’s illegible mumblings all the while. Once it was clean, he could see for sure that it was nothing to worry about, but he was still careful to bandage it nonetheless.

“You and Sam… both hopeless with injuries,” Castiel sighed dismally.

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” Dean pointed out.

“By some miracle,” Cas sniffed. He glared up at Dean when he purposely began to move away. “If you won’t take care of yourself then I’ll have to do it for you.”

“That’s real rich coming from you,” Dean muttered, then immediately looked guilty for saying it.

“Meaning?” Cas asked, taking advantage of Dean’s sudden motionless and resumed his work. The collarbone was a difficult position to work with, and the cut was long and jagged, but he did what he could. Cas slowly finished applying the bandage and inspected his work, deciding whether he was satisfied with it or not.

“Nothing,” Dean dismissed. He again shifted and scratched absently at his chin, averting his eyes from Castiel’s as the ex-angel looked him up and down in case there were any injuries he had missed.

“Dean—” Castiel persisted. Dean sighed, stood up, and flexed his arms carefully, testing the flexibility of the bandage and apparently feeling satisfied that it wouldn’t hinder him in any way.

"Look, it's just that you weren't exactly looking after yourself. So don't you think lecturing me is a bit hypocritical?”

“I was in the safe confines of the bunker. What was the danger in that?”

“Not eating, for one thing,” Dean bent down and retrieved his discarded shirt and roughly pulled it back on.

“I ate a little.” Castiel tried hopelessly to appease him.

“Not enough,” Dean argued. Much to Cas’ surprise, Dean ran his hands up along his sides—starting just above his hips and stopping at his armpits. “You’re skinnier already. You keep going on that way, you’ll be nothing but skin and bones.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t that something humans aspire to?” Cas asked, thinking back to some of the magazines he had briefly flipped through on occasion; and the billboards and commercials he had seen on his journeys; and even some of the television shows and films he had watched in the last year or so—though they were few and far between. He’d been around long enough to know humans had a tendency to starve themselves or strictly tether themselves to a limited diet of some kind. Not that he fully grasped why that was.

“Sometimes. But they shouldn’t,” Dean told him, “and it’s not something you should care about.”

“I don’t,” Cas said.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” Dean squeezed Cas’ shoulder gently. “You’ve got to treat yourself better. This whole thing with the angels… we’ll work it out.”

Cas nodded faintly, but he wasn’t at all convinced or reassured. He couldn’t see how something so dire could ever have a fair resolution. This wasn’t some harmless mistake he could be forgiven for. After this, there was no returning to Heaven, no companionship with any of his brothers and sisters, and no healing of broken wings.

“We’ve overcome worse,” Dean said.

“Worse?”

"The Apocalypse and the Leviathans and—"

“And me,” Cas finished for him, “I’ve been the problem. More than once. And I’m the one thing that we’ve never overcome—not really.”

Dean blinked, apparently startled and overwhelmed. But there flickered the acknowledgment that maybe Castiel was right. It was there in his eyes, and in the discernible flinch in his demeanour. Dean opened his mouth to protest. To lie. But then Sam peered around the open doorway, his brow furrowed.

“Uh, what are you guys doing in here?” He asked, catching on too late that he had interrupted something.

“Talking,” Castiel said.

At the same time, Dean said, “nothing.”

Sam looked between them and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He shoved his hands into his pockets and swayed back and forth on his heels, “Sure. As you do… in the bathroom.”

“You need it or something?” Dean asked, already making his escape for the door.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded.

When Cas didn’t move on his own accord, Dean gestured for him to follow. He reluctantly went after him and murmured a quiet apology to Sam as he passed. When they reached the hall, Castiel kept going, leaving Dean behind in his wake. And Dean made no attempt to stop him.


	2. Newspaper

Castiel peered into the library from the war room and saw that nobody was there. Distantly, he could hear a few unfamiliar voices and he supposed it was the television. From that, he determined Dean’s likely whereabouts, as he always had the volume up too loud. But Cas knew Sam wasn’t there with him, as he couldn’t hear him arguing for control of the remote. It had actually been an hour or so since he had last seen Sam, so he thought that maybe he had gone on a beer run. At least Cas hoped that was the case. For days he had been under their watchful eyes—being scrutinized for everything he did or did not do. Wherever he turned one of them seemed to materialise out of thin air, always offering excuses of some kind that were often unlikely and sometimes even absurd. They were watching him, waiting expectantly for him to resume the pattern of a dying man.

But he hadn’t done it.

Cas, though retiring to the safe confines of his bed at night, always withdrew from it in the morning. He began each day by making coffee; passably, but never well. Then Sam would join him to cook breakfast, though Cas would only attend to the toast—usually burning it and having to try and salvage it by scratching the black crust away with a butter knife. On worse days, he had to scrap it and start all over again. Eventually, Dean would join them, emerging from the dormitories wrapped up in his robe, his hair dishevelled from sleep and his heavy-lidded eyes ringed by dark circles. Cas imagined that Dean often tossed and turned throughout the night, perhaps even more than he did. He wondered what kind of nightmares taunted the hunter. But Cas thought that it was probably best not to ask.

Dean would automatically remake the coffee the way Cas liked it before sitting down with his elbow propped on the table, his head rested sleepily on his fist. With three plates full, Sam and Cas would then join him, comfortably eating together, their tired murmurings eventually evolving into a proper conversation.

It was simple, and it was peaceful.

But there were days where Cas slept in a little longer and didn’t make the first pot of coffee and didn’t bother to fix the toast, serving it burnt and almost inedible. There were days where his absolute silence at the table became heavy and uncomfortable. Inwardly, he resented himself for causing the obvious discomfort. Those were the days where he picked at his food rather than eating it and let his coffee sit and turn cold despite Dean having made it for him.

On those days he often felt Dean’s eyes on him, but he never actually caught him looking and eventually assumed he had imagined it. That maybe he was simply being paranoid.

Apparently, he shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss his suspicions.

Cas sifted through the books and papers on the table and found the newspaper Dean had brought back with the groceries a few hours before. He folded it in half and then in half again, and held it firmly against his leg, attempting to conceal it with his arm. Both Sam and Dean had been keeping him from any outside news. They never verbally barred him from it, but it hadn’t escaped his notice that they always changed the channel from the news whenever he entered the room and tore up the newspapers immediately after reading them. Without a computer he could use, there weren’t any other outlets he could resort to. He understood that the brothers didn’t want him to get involved with the angels. After all, his involvement had been the cause of the literal downfall in the first place. But this obvious dismissal very quickly became frustrating.

Occasionally he could still hear angel radio, but the voices had begun to fade more and more as the angels omitted him. And the longer he was human, the harder it was to listen in. It was like trying to tune a radio when there weren’t any available stations. A lot of the time he heard nothing at all. It became impossible to know where the angels were or what they were doing, and this allowed his imagination to run rampant. Worse, however, was that he realised that whatever presumptions he had made could very well be underestimations. In truth, the chaos out there could be far worse than he had ever pictured. Cas had been on Earth for a number of years and he still felt alienated. Humanity was confusing and complicated and incredibly intricate. Worst of all, humanity could be fragile. The angels could be heavy-handed and dismissive, caring only about their own cause. They had a tendency to look down upon humans as being lesser creatures, and so they were likely to allow people to become trapped in the crossfire or to even use them to their own advantage. Without God’s rule—or anyone’s leadership for that matter—the angels could be at war.

It was distressing to be so in the dark. Cas wanted to at least see if there was anything in the headlines that may have implied angel activity. Even if he couldn’t help, he could at least be witness to the bedlam he had caused. Though the torment of that alone wasn’t near punishment enough. Cas knew he deserved to suffer for what he had done; never mind that his intentions had been pure.

Cas readjusted his grip on the newspaper and turned back the way he had come, fleeing down the hallway as quickly as possible before Sam or Dean could see him. He was prepared to run if need be; no matter how suspicious it would look to do so. Were he to be caught, they were sure to confiscate the paper from him whilst muttering some ridiculous explanation for doing so. There was also the matter of returning the newspaper once he was done with it. He still had no idea how he would do this but decided it was a matter to concern himself with at a later time. Right now reading it was far more important, no matter what possible consequences were to follow for doing so.

“Thought I didn’t see you?” Dean asked from behind him.

Startled, Castiel forgot his initial plan to run and instead shoved the newspaper into his jeans, struggling to fit it into his waistband. The paper prodded uncomfortably at his thigh as he tucked his shirt over the top of it and turned around. Dean walked up to him with his hands tucked into his pockets, an easy smile playing cheekily at his lips as his eyes darted from Cas’ face to the very obvious bulge in his jeans and back again.

“Is that a newspaper in your jeans or are you just happy to see me?” Dean teased, stopping in front of him.

Cas shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cringed when the paper dug into his skin and crinkled. He understood too late that he should have trusted his earlier instinct to run rather than stopping like a deer trapped in headlights. But there was no possible way he could run now; there weren’t many rooms with locks on the doors, and Dean was without a doubt faster than him anyway.

“Excuse me?” Cas asked, not really understanding what Dean was implying.

Dean grinned at his naivety. “Come on, surely you’ve heard that one by now,” he said and sidled in a little closer. He continued to look Cas up and down but was now taking his time, his focus shifting slowly. Cas swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious with Dean staring at his crotch.

“Sorry, I don’t think I have,” Cas cleared his throat, “I was just, uh, going to the bathroom.”

“That’s just all kinds of suspicious,” Dean laughed.

Cas’ cheeks went a pale pink when Dean hooked his fingers into his waistband and pulled the newspaper free. He was relieved not to have it digging horribly into his thigh anymore, but stared hopelessly at it, knowing he would never get the opportunity to read it.

“That’s mine,” he murmured uselessly. He knew Dean couldn’t be persuaded.

“Weird choice for  _“reading material”,”_  Dean said, tucking the newspaper under his arm, “I’ve got some better options if you want them. Fewer articles, more pictures. If you know what I mean…”

Castiel paused and tilted his head slightly to the side, squinting briefly as he pondered it. Dean watched and waited, clearly amused by his confusion, but made no attempt to clue him in. He was too easily entertained by Castiel’s innocence.

“You’re talking about pornography, aren’t you?” Cas asked finally.

“There you go,” Dean chortled.

“Well, thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I’d much rather my newspaper.”

“I need it.” Dean’s smile quickly faded.

Cas sighed, having known to expect an excuse. He’d even suspected that it would be a poor one. “I’m sure you do, Dean, but I had it first.” Cas reached out for it and Dean sidestepped him, keeping the paper just out of his reach. Cas followed, determined to get a hold of it. Sam and Dean couldn’t possibly exclude him forever.

“Finders keepers,” Dean said, backing away further.

“You left it on the table. I found it, I keep it,” Castiel argued.

“And then I found it in your underwear. Therefore, I keep it,” Dean challenged.

“So are you always going to put your hands in my underwear and just take whatever you want?”

Dean grinned, raising an eyebrow. “What? Was that an invitation?” He spluttered.

Realising what he’d said, Cas’ face flushed completely scarlet. “No, of course not. I just want this—” He snatched the paper free from Dean’s arm and bolted without any pause for thought. He ran down the hall and skidded along the tiles as he turned right when he should have gone left. Now he had no idea where he ought to go and he could hear Dean running behind him.

“This is ridiculous!” Dean shouted, quickly catching up. Cas skidded again at the next turn and froze when he reached a dead end. Silently, he cursed the bunker for having so many winding hallways that seemingly led to nowhere and everywhere all at once. “I can’t believe you just ran,” Dean huffed from behind him.

Castiel turned, his brow furrowed in frustration. Dean was trying to force back a grin as he grabbed the paper and tried to tug it free from Castiel’s hand. Cas held on tight and tugged back. The pages very quickly began to crinkle and tear as they pulled back and forth. Dean pressed his shoulder against him and tried to turn the other way, but Cas was too strong and his stance was completely unhindered. Cas pushed hard and Dean hit the wall with a quick thud, dragging the ex-angel with him until they were flush against one another with the wall at Dean’s back. The paper tore some more; pieces fluttering to the floor where they became trampled beneath their shuffling feet—it was a wonder how much of it would actually be left to read whenever they were done. Dean gritted his teeth, his eyes pointed and almost scary as he fought for control, but Cas wasn’t giving in, and, surprisingly, he was able to fend for himself even without his grace. The momentary shock of this unexpected strength had already passed, however, meaning Dean wasn’t any closer to losing focus. Cas pulled Dean’s arm in against his chest and tried to pin it there, hoping to loosen his hand and force him to drop the paper.

Then, for barely even a second, Dean’s eyes met his and he was still. And Cas froze too. In that instant, there was absolute horror and confusion at what they were doing, and both seemed lost as to how exactly they got there or why. Yet they both refused to let go first.

“What the hell, guys?!” Sam exclaimed, turning the corner.

Cas automatically stepped back, releasing Dean’s arm, but his other hand still held the paper firm.

“He stole the newspaper!” Dean accused, pushing himself off from the wall.

“I borrowed it! He stole it from my pants!” Cas pointed an accusing finger at Dean.

“I leave for ten minutes and this is what happens,” Sam shook his head in disbelief, “you’re behaving like children. Dean, you’re in your 30s, and, Cas, you’re how many millennia? Act like it.”

“Now you’ve gotten us in trouble,” Dean grumbled and nudged Castiel’s arm. Sam stepped forward and took the newspaper from them, neither of them attempting to hold onto it.

“I’m confiscating this,” Sam announced, holding it—or rather what was left of it—up for them to see. He shook his head again and went back the way he had come.

There was a long silence in which neither Dean nor Cas spoke or moved until, finally, Dean began to laugh. His shoulders shook, the sound of his laughter so boisterous and loud that it bounced off the walls and echoed down the hallway. Dean looked to Cas, joyful tears pooling in his eyes, and he placed a friendly hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Cas couldn’t help but smile back at him. He knew he ought to be annoyed for having the paper—and his one chance to have information from the outside—taken away from him, but the grudge simply wouldn’t stick. Dean was simply aglow with exhilaration, so to shut up and just be happy came easily to Cas. His smile was an honest and true one.

“Little Sammy has put us to shame,” Dean said finally, wiping a tear from his eye. The edges of his smile faltered a little. Instead of his hand dropping from Castiel’s shoulder, he sidled in closer and put his arm around him. Dean pulled Cas into his side, squeezing tight for a second, and guided him down the hallway.

“He understandably thinks very little of us right now,” Cas agreed, melting into the curve of Dean’s body easily, his back and shoulders supported by Dean’s arm.

“I think he’s just a little relieved he isn’t at the brunt of it this time,” Dean said, “you know, fighting over the remote or the last beer or whatever. He probably likes that I have someone else to fight with for a while.”

“So I’ve taken you off his hands?” Cas said, smiling, "Well, aren't I lucky?"

“So lucky,” Dean grinned, chuffed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Such things didn’t often escape Castiel’s notice anymore. He knew each of Dean's smiles far too well and could see when it was tainted in some kind of quiet sadness. But the reasons behind it still managed to elude him.

When they reached the kitchen, Cas slipped out from under Dean’s arm and sat at the table with his back against the wall, watching Dean as he searched the fridge. Cas knew that the beer was on the middle shelf, yet he realised Dean was taking his time in looking up and down from shelf to shelf. Cas frowned but said nothing, allowing Dean his brief moment of solitude. Eventually, Dean sat opposite him, his shoulder against the wall and his legs under the table with his feet propped up on the stool beside Cas. Wordlessly, he slid a beer across the table to him before cracking open his own.

Cas was quiet, focused solely on his beer as he opened it and fiddled with the cap, rolling it slowly between his fingers. He suddenly felt Dean lightly kick his thigh and he apprehensively peered up at him. Clearly, there was something Dean wished to say, but Cas was almost entirely certain that it wasn’t something he wished to hear.

“How are you, man?” Dean asked, all earlier signs of elation completely gone—the smile had been effortlessly wiped from his face.

“Good.” Castiel quickly resorted to a one-word answer.

“Cas, we’ve been over this. You’re a terrible liar,” Dean sighed, chugging a large portion of his beer. Cas recognised Dean’s grip of the bottle tightening and the dark shadow of concern that had swept over his eyes.

“I’m good, Dean. I wake up, make toast, read and clean the kitchen—”

“I think there are some days where you just can’t pretend to be happy,” Dean interjected, “like… some days it’s too hard and you really can’t do it anymore.”

“You think I’m pretending to be happy?” Cas averted his gaze, suddenly very interested in his drink.

Dean nudged Cas’ thigh again to regain his attention. “I know you are. Wanna know how I know? You were smiling before, and I realised that it was the first real smile in weeks. Which means every smile prior had been forced.” Cas could see that Dean was trying to meet his eyes. “You’re getting better at faking them, I’ll give you that much. But I see you now, Cas.”

“Haven’t you always seen me?” Cas sighed.

“I thought so. But I’ve been wrong before.” Dean reached across the table and took Cas’ bottle from his weak fingers. “I think this time I was looking too hard. I just saw what I wanted to.”

“And what was that?” Castiel finally met Dean’s eyes, his own empty and tired.

“That you were okay. Figured, you know, ‘he’s up and moving, must mean he’s okay. Look, he’s even smiling sometimes’. But then… well, I saw you.”

“Sorry,” Cas said instinctively. And he meant it.

“Not looking for an apology, Cas.” Dean drank the last of his beer and pushed the empty bottle aside. “I just want to see you happy. Actually happy. Not the fake kind.”

Castiel furrowed his brow and he wrung his hands together in anxiety. He immediately felt the pressure of wanting to appease Dean and was completely lost as to how he could. It seemed impossible to dispel his own depression. It was the affliction that always dragged him back to his bed. It was the curse that made him feel as if his bones were made of stone. Cas was trying his best to be as little a burden as possible to the Winchesters, but it often seemed pointless to try; nothing seemed to matter as much as it once did.

“Hey, it’s not like a switch,” Dean said. He knew Cas well enough to discern exactly what he was thinking. “You can’t just turn happiness on and off, and I would never expect you to.”

“So what do you suggest?” Cas asked.

“Shit, I don’t know. I’m not exactly a role model for happiness.” Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Cas looked at him knowingly. “You tend to shut out others and turn to liquor and sexual relations with various women. And I didn’t need Sam to tell me that it was unhealthy and ineffective, I could see that for myself. Sure, some relief comes from it, but it’s only temporary.”

Dean shifted again and put up a hand to silence him. “Okay, I get it, thanks. But temporary benefits might be a good place to start, don’t you think?”

Castiel was perplexed. What sense did it make for him to follow the exact advice that Dean just admitted was bad? As far as he was concerned, it made no sense at all. Besides, liquor had done him no favours in the past—as limited as his experience with intoxication was. He never found the same relief at the bottom of a bottle that Dean often seemed to. And relations with women, various or not, was, quite frankly, completely out of the question. There was no real desire there, and it seemed immoral to seek out sex with no other intention than to try and evoke some kind of pleasure. He didn’t believe it would ever prove distracting enough.

“Dean. You and I both know that for me to truly be happy, if that’s at all a possibility, is to help the angels return to Heaven. But I realise that you still don’t want me to get involved. You don’t want to risk it. Risk me making a bigger mess of the one I already made—”

“No. I don’t want you getting killed,” Dean interrupted, suddenly angry, “it’s a mess Metatron  _used you_  to make. You don’t deserve to die for that. So I’m not going to let some asshole angel shank you out of some misdirected vendetta.”

“You have an odd sense of what I do or do not deserve,” Cas muttered.

“Hey,” Dean said sharply. Cas jumped, startled, before shrinking in on himself, his shoulders slumping so he looked small, unassuming and very weak. “Right now, you can’t see yourself clearly. But I can.  _I see you_. You don’t think you deserve to be saved…”

Cas peered up at him, his blue eyes dipped in lost hope and profound pain. He hated having his own words thrown back at him like that. Because they didn’t apply here. It was absolutely true: Cas didn’t think he deserved to be saved—he knew it. But the words didn’t carry the same weight when passing through Dean’s lips. Cas was this empty shell of burden and wrongdoing and self-destroying arrogance.

But that wasn’t Dean.

Dean was everything Cas believed he wasn’t. Dean was the righteous man whose mistakes were never due to a misguided sense of self-worth. Where Castiel had learned how to love, Dean had always felt it, and perhaps that was truly where their differences began. And that’s what made Dean so worthy of forgiveness while Cas could never justly earn it.

“Just start small, Cas,” Dean sighed finally. “What makes you happy?”

‘You’, Cas thought but didn’t say. He pressed his cheek against his open palm and closed his eyes with a small shake of his head. “I don’t know, Dean. Uh, television, I suppose… Reading on occasion. I do quite enjoy hot showers. The smell of coffee in the morning. The feeling of clean sheets. Erm, bees are quite interesting—”

“Right. Okay. We can do all that,” Dean eagerly interjected. He paused and laughed hollowly, “Well, except for the bees. TV, books, hot showers, coffee, and clean sheets. Easy. Isn’t there anything else, Cas? Stuff you haven’t tried? Music you haven’t listened to or foods you haven’t eaten?”

“Places I haven’t gone?” Cas tried, though there wasn’t really anywhere he wanted to go.

“That’s… for another time,” Dean said apologetically, “right now, you’re a flight risk—”

“Hardly,” Cas disagreed. “No wings, remember?”

Dean looked even more rueful. “You know what I mean. You’d run off and we both know it.”

“If that were true, wouldn’t I have done it already?” Castiel challenged.

“Then why haven’t you?” Dean bit back smugly.

Cas faltered. “Because… you asked me to stay,” he admitted.

They were quiet for a moment, and then Dean cleared his throat, his eyes averted. “Right. And I’m asking you again… to stay. I want you here. Hell, I  _need_  you here.”

Cas felt a warmth in his chest. The back of his neck prickled with some kind of indescribable bliss. It was in the way Dean’s face flushed a pale pink and in the way his eyes pierced the floor with the inability to meet Castiel’s gaze out of fear that the honesty may be blinding. Cas could tell that Dean meant what he said. Just being needed—by Dean of all people—was more than Cas could have ever hoped for; it was everything.

“I’m here,” Cas promised.

Dean looked at him. “Good,” he said, almost shy. He smiled. It was a warm and honest smile that reached his eyes, and for once Castiel knew the cause. Cas’ heart started to hammer what felt like a few beats too fast and too many, but in the best way possible, and he found himself needing to be the first to look away.

“Well, aren’t you lucky?” Cas jested, trying to lighten the mood so perhaps he would regain stability in his suddenly weak knees. Still, he couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, and he fiddled nervously with a loose thread from the hem of his t-shirt, as though completely enthralled by the fraying fibre.

“So lucky,” Dean said before standing up to dispose of his empty bottle.

Cas silently retrieved his own drink and sipped steadily from it, the sound of his wildly beating heart still pounding in his ears, the tips of his ears bright red and the hairs on his neck still prickling like an electric shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you're enjoying this story so far! Keep an eye out for chapter 3!


	3. Laundry Day

Castiel awoke to loud music in his ear. He sat up groggily and squinted against the light above his bed. Rubbing roughly at his tired eyes, Cas saw Dean standing by his desk, his attention focused on the stereo as he adjusted the volume. “What are you doing?” Cas asked, his throat dry and voice gruff. The music steadily grew louder, Dean’s grin growing more devilish all the while.

“Music you haven’t listened to,” Dean explained over the stereo. He turned around, his eyes clearly alight with pride. “Starting small, remember?”

“Did it have to start _now_?” Cas groaned and turned his back to Dean. He tugged aggressively at the blanket and buried his head beneath it, but the thin layer did nothing to muffle the drone of Dean’s cassette tape. He knew without needing to look at the time that it was far earlier than he would have liked. It was shocking in itself to see Dean awake before him, but the surprise quickly wore off, leaving him exasperated.

“Now is a good time,” Dean said, turning the music down to a less offensive volume. Finally, Cas could actually hear himself think.

“What time is it?” Cas grumbled from beneath the blankets.

“Five? Maybe earlier?” Dean answered dismissively, apparently occupied with the stereo as he changed sides on the tape. Cas heard the button click over and then felt relief when something quiet and gentle drifted from the speakers.

“You are pure evil,” Cas accused. He sniffed at the air curiously and grew all the more aggrieved. “You didn’t even bring me coffee. Sadist.”

“Was a bit hard to try and juggle a stereo and coffee.”

Cas felt Dean nudging him in the back. He cautiously peered out from his blanket, his stare turning piercing when Dean continued to prod him. Dean stood clad in his makeshift pyjamas: a loose fitting tee and dark boxers. Cas was momentarily surprised by the absence of his ridiculous grey bathrobe, but then, in the corner of his eye, he saw it draped over the back of his desk chair. It was a touch too warm in Castiel’s room, the air vents inexplicably channelling most of the bunker’s heating there, but he hadn’t yet needed to shed any further than an unbuttoned shirt. Since Dean had sacrificed the supposed comfort of his oversized robe, he guessed the hunter was more susceptible to the heat.

“Scoot over,” Dean ordered. He nudged Cas again harder, digging excessively at the small of his back. Cas rolled his eyes but did as he was told without argument. He struggled at first to reclaim possession of his legs as the sheets had seemingly entrapped them sometime throughout the night. Tangled, Cas kicked at the blankets, slowly but surely freeing himself from the confining material whilst Dean impatiently waited. “What did you do, wrestle a bear in your sleep?” Dean asked, clambering beside him on the bed when there still wasn’t quite enough room.

“Ow, that was my hand you just sat on,” Cas sniffed, frowning sleepily at the state of his bed as he scooted further to one side. Briefly, he felt relief that his sheets, for once, weren’t damp with his nightmare induced sweat. He remembered his sleep being perturbed by horrific nightmares, but couldn’t recall what exactly they pertained. By now the memory had all but escaped him, though the twisted mess of sheets implied it wasn’t a memory he would wish to retain anyway.

“Sorry,” Dean said, clearly not sorry at all.

Dean settled himself atop the blankets and propped one of Cas’ pillows at his back, effortlessly making himself at home. Despite the rude awakening, Cas couldn’t actually find it in himself to complain. Truth be told, it didn’t matter how tired or grumpy he was. He could curse the insufferable hour but never Dean’s company. Cas knew that he would always welcome Dean with open arms—his presence in the room was a comfort.

“Why are you awake, Dean?” Cas murmured, struggling to get comfortable. The bed wasn’t really equipped to fit two grown men so he didn’t dare try to rearrange himself too much as he was already lying precariously at the very edge. Eventually, he snuggled his head deeper into his pillow and accepted that this was as good as it was ever going to get.

“Dunno, I just felt like it.” The bed creaked as Dean also tried to find a comfortable position, readjusting the pillow at his back. “I was listening to some music and figured I should share it.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, but I don’t know if that really excuses the hour—” Cas started.

“Shh, just listen,” Dean insisted.

Castiel sighed but quieted and listened to the melodic music. Had he heard it in passing and had to venture a guess as to whose music it was, Dean would never have been his first guess. He’d already grown accustomed to Dean’s usual classic rock, which, as Cas recalled, was usually loud and fast-paced. Not that Cas was arguing. This music was far better suited for him and it helped ease him more into the subpar comfort of his warm bed. This was music he could fall asleep to. He hummed quietly and nuzzled his nose into the blanket.

“It’s good, right?” Dean asked knowingly.

Cas could practically hear the smile that was playing at Dean’s lips. And he could feel Dean’s eyes on him, searching for any sign of acknowledgement; maybe the hint of a smile or a faint nod of his head. Apparently, Castiel’s approval meant a lot to Dean, so he gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“It’s not what I expected, but yes, it’s quite good,” Cas granted.

“Aren’t I brilliant?” Dean prodded Castiel’s arm, wanting his full attention. Cas peered up at him.

“You’re a man of many admirable qualities. Great taste in music is one of them,” Cas provided, straight-faced, though he truly meant it. 

“Soooo… You mean I’m awesome?” Dean grinned boyishly.

Cas couldn’t help but smile fondly and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Dean. You’re awesome.”

“Aww shucks, Cas. You’re too kind.” Dean said brightly and playfully brushed Cas’ cheek with his knuckles. Watching him, Cas thought Dean had never looked more youthful.

Dean was taking up more than his fair share of the bed, his limbs seemingly splaying to take up most of the room. Cas teetered ever closer to the edge and so he half-heartedly nudged Dean’s hip, already knowing he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, be moved. Eventually, Cas gave in and found that it was simply best to just hold on and hope for the best. Soon, however, Dean surprised him by holding his arm and pulling him in closer, rescuing him from the treacherous cold tiles. Cas sheepishly shuffled closer into Dean’s side, his back against Dean’s ribs, accepting his unspoken invitation to share.

Together, they listened to the music in silence, but Cas started to fade in and out of sleep, and one song blurred into the next until he could no longer distinguish any difference between them. Each time he awoke, still in a daze, he felt a small pang of guilt for failing to pay attention. But Dean didn’t seem to mind. The hunter would occasionally hum to the tune of whichever song was playing, and soon Cas found himself listening solely to Dean instead.

Suddenly, Dean nudged Castiel again. Cas slowly turned to face him, his eyes now wide open and alert. He furrowed his brow and cautiously crept out a little from beneath the covers. He leaned up on one elbow and gazed down at the hunter, immediately recognising that something was troubling him. Briefly, he thought how maybe Dean was using the music to ease his own suffering as much as he was using it to try and ease Castiel’s

“What is it, Dean?” Cas asked quietly.

Dean hesitated and crossed his arms. “I dunno, man, it’s just… you were screaming in your sleep last night.”

“You heard me?” Immediately, Cas realised he should have feigned ignorance.

Maybe he should have denied it completely.

He honestly hadn’t known that he had been screaming into the night, but the news didn’t come as a surprise to him. Cas had, on occasion, woken with the terror still ripping from his throat, the sound so startling that it took a moment to realise it was coming from him. But neither Sam nor Dean had ever heard him before. Their rooms were simply too far away from his, and they were usually absent from the bunker anyway. It hadn’t ever been an issue until now.

Now, Cas felt guilt for being a disruption—a nuisance.

“Hard not to, Cas. I could hear you from the end of the hall,” Dean said.

“I’m sorry.” Cas dipped his head in shame.

“You need to stop doing that.” Dean turned on his side, facing Cas.

“I’ll try, Dean,” Cas promised, “I’m not really sure what I should do. I sometimes wake myself up but not always and—”

“I didn’t mean the screaming,” Dean interrupted, “I meant the apologising. I don’t even get what you’re sorry for.”

“For being a burden.”

“Bullshit,” Dean dismissed him, his voice practically booming in contrast to the quiet music and the absolute stillness of the room. Castiel shivered. “If you’re a burden, then what the fuck does that make me?” Dean looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, but Cas didn’t have one to offer him.

Castiel shrugged weakly, casting his eyes back down to the bed.

“You know… you could have told me you were having trouble sleeping.”

“What difference would that have made?” Cas asked, sounding harsher than he had intended. From what he had come to understand, there wasn’t any helping him. If there was, then he wasn’t in any position to accept it. Help was for those that deserved it. Help was for those capable of helping themselves, and that wasn’t him. He knew by now that he was a lost cause. Cas believed that no matter what he learned from his mistakes, he was bound to always make another that was far worse than the last.

Castiel was the problem, and that could never be changed.

“I dunno. Maybe no difference at all,” Dean granted. “Look, I know I’m not the ‘talk-about-it’ type, but I would have tried.”

“That’s not true,” Cas said, “you are the ‘talk-about-it’ type… just as long as you aren’t the one having to do the talking.”

“Touché,” Dean laughed flatly. “You know me far too well. It’s almost creepy.”

“Almost,” Cas agreed with a tired sigh. “I see you, Dean. Most days you emerge from your room with dark bags under your eyes and restless bed head. I think you dream just as much as I do.”

“So… you’re basically saying I look like crap in the morning?” Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly challenging him. There was a definite right and wrong answer here.

Castiel’s eyes briefly drifted up and down the length of Dean’s body, observing the unkempt state of his hair and the two-day-old stubble on his chin. He peered curiously at the loose-fitting tee—the healing wound Cas had patched up peeking out on Dean’s exposed collarbone—and further down to the boxers that had somehow ridden up further Dean’s thighs to look almost like briefs. Then, looking back up, Cas met Dean’s alluring green eyes.

“No,” Cas decided, though there had never actually been any question about it. “You never look like crap in the morning.”

“Geez, almost sounded like you were flirting with me just now,” Dean teased, “you practically just undressed me with your eyes.”

Castiel’s cheeks flushed scarlet and he quickly looked away, embarrassed. He could never admit how he had, on multiple occasions, wondered about the body beneath Dean’s clothes. Since becoming human, and sometimes even before that, Cas had sometimes caught himself looking at Dean in a way he probably shouldn’t; in a way he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Sometimes he could become so easily distracted by the hunter and he had immense difficulty trying to regain his focus.

This was one of those times.

Being human apparently came with a lot more than he had ever actually anticipated. He’d known about the hunger and the tiredness and even the need to empty his bowel and bladder—granted, he had underestimated the regularity of all these things—but the part about sexual arousal had gone by completely forgotten. It wasn’t exactly the first thing to come to mind immediately upon losing his grace. But, truth be told, it hadn’t been too long after when it had first come to his attention. Once he was in the safety of the bunker he had been able to step into this almost completely unexplored territory, and it had been a lot to take in. There had always been a part of him that admired Dean, but now that admiration had been exemplified tenfold; to the point of being an actual hindrance.

In Dean’s absence, it all seemed a lot less problematic—he didn’t have to try so hard to conceal his true desires—but of course, this meant his mind was free to explore other things; things that sent him spiralling to a darker place from which he felt there was no return. Whenever Dean _was_ around, however, he seemed very _present_. Cas was constantly aware that Dean was _there_. It was impossible not to look at him, his eyes roaming Dean’s tall, muscular frame. Then later, in the privacy of his room or the shower, Cas could freely daydream. The shower had actually become the worst place for it, and Cas suspected that it had something to do with the nudity. It sent his imagination into overdrive, into places where it shouldn’t go, and then a five-minute shower quite easily turned into a fifteen-minute one.

Cas hadn’t dared voice a word about it to either Sam or Dean. He knew there wasn’t any point. It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand what these thoughts or physical arousals meant, or why it happened. He had long ago decided to keep his teeth firmly clamped down on his tongue to escape the embarrassment that was bound to ensue were he ever to mention his newfound libido.

But now, with Dean drawing attention to himself, Castiel again started to picture the contours or Dean’s body. This wasn’t difficult as Dean was wearing so little as it was, compared to his usual jeans and multiple layers of flannel and/or leather. Cas imagined tracing Dean’s naked hip and the inside of his thighs and kissing at those damn collarbones. He contemplated what it would be like to taste the inside of Dean’s mouth, to bite at his bottom lip, and to feel the heat of his skin flush against his own.

Suddenly, Castiel couldn’t even hear the music anymore. His pulse was pounding in his ears. As far as he was concerned, the room was completely bare, bar Dean. Cas cleared his throat awkwardly and turned his back to Dean again, hastily tugging at the covers and feigning a chill. In reality, he was paranoid about concealing the ever-growing bulge in his pyjama pants. He realised he was probably already safe from prying eyes, but made an extra effort to ensure it all the same. Trying hard not to focus too much on the discomfort between his legs, Cas listened for the music again, actually wishing that it was the loud rock music Dean usually listened to. He suspected that it would have provided a far better distraction.

Dean chuckled quietly and started to trace the base of Cas’ spine with his fingers. Since Dean hadn’t made a complaint or an escape for the door, Cas could only assume that he hadn’t noticed anything unusual, and so he finally allowed himself an imperceptible sigh of relief.

“Next time you wake me up this early, please bring me coffee,” Castiel urged.

“I’ll try,” Dean promised idly. His fingers dipped into the waistband of Cas’ pants for just a few seconds before withdrawing. Castiel’s cheeks immediately flushed red, and heat crept up the back of his neck. “There will be a next time,” Dean confirmed.

Cas would be lying if he said he wasn’t thrilled at the idea. Dean’s company, after all, was a comfort.

 

* * *

 

 

True to his word, Dean brought him coffee every morning. Cas never thought to ask why, but their meetings usually began around five in the morning and ended not long before Sam was due to wake up. In those few hours, they would lie together side by side on Cas’ undersized bed: Dean atop the blankets and Cas under them. Whilst sipping lazily at his coffee, Cas would watch Dean sifting through his numerous cassettes with his brow furrowed in concentration as he considered the options. The music was always the same: either the gentle melodic mix from their first morning together or Dean’s favoured classic rock with the volume down low upon Castiel’s request.

Cas’ preferences entirely depended on whatever Dean liked most, which, miraculously, changed every few days. He would look for the minute changes to Dean’s features: the faint flicker of a smile, or the relaxation of his usually tense jaw, or the lightest exhale of contentment. When that perfect song began to play, Cas knew, and suddenly it was perfect to him too. By the next sunrise, Cas would ask to hear that same song again, and he would watch that bliss come alight like fire in Dean’s eyes. It reminded him why he loved it so much; why each lyric sent a euphoric shiver down his spine.

It worked well for them—this little routine of theirs. The nightmares slowly began to subside; Cas’ sheets becoming just that little bit neater in the morning, with all signs of his usual tormented tossing and turning almost completely absent. There remained some kind of self-loathing: a part of him that still believed that he hadn’t yet earned the right to peaceful nights. But he had to admit that he couldn’t help but relish in the beautiful relief that was contented sleep. Eventually, he allowed it, but awoke with a spark of resentment and inwardly chastised himself. It seemed important to remember that he wasn’t pure or righteous.

Yet, despite all of this, his greed was boundless.

Cas would selfishly lie in wait buried beneath his covers and feign sleep, his eyes peering hopefully at the door, just willing for it to open. And Dean always came, albeit a little later than usual sometimes. Cas never thought to question those mornings: the ones where ten minutes late turned into twenty or occasionally thirty. Cas could only assume that Dean was still sleeping. Though, deep down, that selfish part of him yearned for Dean’s company and dreaded the possibility that maybe there would come a day when Dean didn’t come. He would wait with bated breath, wondering if Dean had finally had enough. But in the end, Castiel’s fears were always dispelled, because Dean _always_ showed. Always with hot cups of coffee in handmade the way Cas liked it— and occasionally with a new cassette he had made tucked into his pocket.

On the mornings he was late something was usually a little different. A little off. At first, Cas couldn’t quite put his finger on it, though he certainly tried. He often found himself spending hours contemplating and theorising and brooding over every insignificant detail, searching for answers in anything he may have missed.

Then he finally saw it.

Dean was quieter. More distant. Near completely isolated. He could barely meet Cas’ eye, and his expression remained completely impervious to the music as though he wasn’t really listening to it. Cas realised that Dean’s hair was all the more unkempt and damp after a shower, and there was a hint of pink to his cheeks that never seemed to fade. His eyes would flitter from wall to wall, from the floor to the ceiling—always avoiding looking at Castiel. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Dean was embarrassed. Or perhaps the word _ashamed_ was more fitting. Not that Castiel could even begin to fathom how or why this could be, which was why he denounced the idea immediately. He tried equally as hard to deny the nagging suspicion that it was his fault—something he had said or done to hurt or offend him in some way. This theory was near impossible to dispel.

After all, it had oftentimes proven true in the past.

As it reached quarter to six, Cas felt a tightness in his chest that he was now, unfortunately, all too familiar with. It was a growing anxiety around his unopened door. It was the dread settling deep in his gut when he didn’t hear approaching footsteps in the hall. Cas swore the room was so much colder whenever Dean wasn’t there, even with the overzealous heating blowing in through the air vents. He looked at the stereo Dean had left behind and he cursed its silence. It didn’t seem appropriate to listen to it on his own, with only the one cassette tape left in the slot.

Cas realised he wasn’t in any position to hope for more than what he already had. It was unfair to ask Dean to stay.

 It was dangerous to become dependent on Dean like this.

Cas shouldn’t feel this desperation. After all, he knew nothing if not solitude. By now he knew how to be alone.

But the truth was… he didn’t want to be. He didn’t wish for that other pillow—the one that had unofficially become Dean’s—to be cold and vacant. Cas didn’t want his thoughts to hang idly in the recesses of his mind with nobody there to share them with. He didn’t desire for his skin to remain untouched, his body rejected without the solidity of someone there beside him. Castiel had come to rely on his back curving perfectly into Dean’s side, the hunter’s fingers idly running across his spine, occasionally dipping into the waistband of his pyjamas or under his shirt with a shiver coursing through Cas’ body.

But Castiel realised that these desires could not be granted by just anyone. It didn’t matter if someone was there to listen and touch and just _be_ because the desires dissipated the instant Cas tried to picture someone else in Dean’s place. Were it a stranger at his side, their fingers gracing the skin of his back, their music playing on the stereo, and their scent left on that second pillow, it would feel as though there was nobody there at all. Cas could be enveloped in another’s arms and still feel desolate because it was Dean whom he wanted to be held by.

Castiel decided that it wasn’t dependency—it was longing. And that terrified him.

Since acquiring his mortality, Cas had been struck by a constant influx of emotions. As if his sudden and demanding physical needs like sleeping and eating weren’t enough trouble as it was, he was also burdened by a wide array of emotions that not only varied but also seemed to change on a whim. Whilst he was no stranger to guilt, confusion, and remorse, amongst daunting others, many had still been beyond his understanding. Now he felt everything—usually all at once. He could feel the entire spectrum between happy and sad at the same time and never comprehend why. It troubled him to think how these new and overwhelming sensations that surrounded thoughts of Dean were both thrilling and shameful. While he could claim that his growing sexual arousal for the hunter was nothing more than physical instinct, he couldn’t deny that the longing was anything other than emotional.

Castiel gnawed gently at his bottom lip and sat up in his bed. He listened briefly for the sound of footsteps that he already knew weren’t there. Despite all his previous fears about Dean’s absence having been proven false, Cas still found himself expecting the worst. The distress felt warranted this time; very real and deserved, in a way it never had before. This was the latest Dean had ever been, and all signs seemed to suggest that the wait was going to be endless this time. Cas likely wouldn’t see Dean until breakfast. He imagined them returning to their old routine: making coffee that only Sam would dare drink, burning the toast while Sam made them a proper meal, Dean then remaking the coffee, and the three of them sitting together in a tired silence. As far as routines go, it was a good one. Cas had been perfectly content with it for all those weeks since they had returned from their hunt. But ever since he and Dean had allocated those few, secretive hours alone together, something in the old pattern had changed. It was a small shift in the familiar, so miniscule in fact, that Cas often wondered if he had imagined it, but at the kitchen table it became impossible to deny it.

Their eyes would meet, heavy with purpose and knowing. Dean would smile at him whenever Sam wasn’t looking. It was the same flirtatious grin Dean usually reserved for the women he met at bars and diners, the same alluring smirk that he paired with a seductive passion in his eyes. Dean had obviously perfected the look over time, and there was no mistaking it; it frequently left Castiel breathless and in a daze. Each time Dean gazed at him and gave him that tempting smile, Cas was hit with a sudden rush of ecstasy that was also tainted with shame. As much as he savoured these moments, he couldn’t help but resent them too. The worst part of it all was simply that he knew it would all lead to nowhere. It was an absolute torment to want to touch and kiss and caress someone, and then never be able to. And he suspected that the look was entirely empty. He didn’t think that there was any true lust there behind Dean’s eyes, considering how he often shied away from his touch in public spaces; their occasional embraces short with a perceptible tension in Dean’s shoulders—though his hand sometimes hesitated at the small of his back, lingering whilst the rest of him pulled away, and his fingers would grasp the material of his coat for just a few seconds before letting go.

They were different together with the privacy of four walls, with all curious eyes unable to penetrate through layers of brick. Dean had no hesitation in sitting close and touching his skin, his hands occasionally adventuring away from his back to graze his ribcage or his thighs. Dean was always touching him in some capacity, only withdrawing to change sides on whichever tape that was playing. Cas wondered what changed. Why did it matter if someone was there to witness them? It all seemed perfectly innocent—sometimes even disappointingly so. There was so much more he wished to do, and so many ways he would love to be touched. But, alas, these daydreams never came to pass.

Castiel pushed his blankets aside and got out of bed, hovering at the door with his hand on the doorknob. He wasn’t sure if he dared venture out in search of Dean. Something about the prospect seemed invasive. Dean hadn’t expressed a need for privacy for many months, but Castiel had little doubt that didn’t mean that all earlier requests had lost their relevance. Cas opened the door and stepped warily into the hall, looking left and right, and saw, as he expected, nothing at all. He traversed the bunker, taking his time to explore every room that he had, for some reason or another, avoided in the past. In the time he had spent alone there, he had occupied the same few rooms that he had done when the brothers were home; never finding the urge to look where he didn’t need to. Now he realised that he hadn’t been missing out on much. Every room led to another room that looked quite like the first with only a few minor adjustments. Perhaps, were he someone else, he would gaze upon all these old artefacts and trinkets in wonderment. But, he was—used to be—an angel. He had borne witness to history, with ideas and concepts and intricacies that the Men of Letters could never have imagined carved permanently into his memory. He had been able to venture into realms that they couldn’t. To ethereal planes that no human even knew existed.

How mundane everything here seemed.

 Castiel actually found himself fascinated by the insignificant. He was curious about strange human behaviours—strange to him at least—and could sit for hours in front of the television, enthralled by the adventures of underage pregnant women; or a moustached doctor that never seemed to address physical injuries, but rather the abhorrent actions of somewhat manic people; or even the catfights that ensued when endeavouring to be the top model. Cas cared more about what he had never been granted opportunity to observe from Heaven—about everything the other angels had deemed unimportant and sometimes even pitiful. 

As he toured the bunker, he found himself overlooking all the staple items that had resided there for many years. Instead, he looked at all the small things that Sam and Dean had added. He understood they didn’t have much. The two of them had spent much of their lives in the Impala with only two duffel bags worth of clothes and toiletries, and the numerous weapons stored in the trunk. Since their tragic childhoods, neither of them had had much opportunity to live what one would consider a ‘normal’ life: to live with a permanent roof over their heads; to buy their own furniture and spend many exhaustive hours arguing with a partner over which colour to paint the bedroom walls. In the brief moments they had spent in the white picket fence life, Cas suspected that very little, if anything, had actually been theirs. So how strange it must have been to suddenly find themselves in a home that was as expansive and confounding as them.

 Upon investigation, Castiel mainly saw the remnants of Dean: an empty beer bottle here, a pamphlet menu for a nearby diner there. In the main bathroom, Cas noticed that Dean’s belongings adorned the basin in a relatively organised manner: with his shaving cream and razors to one side, aftershave and cologne to the other, whilst all of Sam’s toiletries were tucked away in the drawers. In the study, Sam had placed all the books he had perused back onto the shelves with a scrap of paper marking his place in each one, whilst Dean left his smaller books open on the table to return to later—still in a manner that somehow made sense to him and no one else. And in the kitchen, all signs of Sam were completely absent. This was Dean’s space. It was the place Dean liked to keep clean, though he had recently sacrificed this practice to Castiel to give him something to do. The kitchen was where Dean could always be found once you had already eliminated his bedroom. It was where he liked to prepare dinner for the three of them—an apron secretly around his front whenever he believed neither Cas nor Sam would come in and see him.

But Dean wasn’t there now. All the lights were switched off, casting the kitchen into ominous shadow. It made Castiel think of desolation. It looked lonely in there, he decided—like no one had ever been there before. He shivered and quickly turned away, never stepping a foot inside the open doorway. On the way back towards his bedroom he diverted and went into the bathroom again, retrieving his towel from the rack and hanging it over the shower door. It seemed pointless to go back to bed only to lie awake, anxious and fretting over everything that was completely out of his control. He tried to focus his attention on the shower, taking care to lather himself with soap and shampoo his hair. As he washed his face, his hands brushed through what was quickly becoming a full beard, and he decided to shave it. By now he knew how—it hadn’t been all that difficult, considering—but he hadn’t made much of a habit out of doing it. It was the one chore he usually left undone until eventually he saw himself in the mirror and became struck by the dishevelled state of his reflection. He knew Sam and Dean saw it too: the mess that he was. Not that they ever said anything aloud to him, though they probably shared a few words with each other whenever he was out of earshot. Cas wrapped his towel around his waist after drying his hair and coated his chin in foam, selecting a clean razor to use. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Dean’s solitary razor had suddenly gotten a companion; the two razors, almost identical, sitting vertically side by side on the counter—an unspoken suggestion that Cas ought to shave.

 Cas knew Dean only meant well. He was trying to silently make room for the former angel in the Winchester home.

But Cas still didn’t feel welcome. He likely never would.

At least it seemed a grateful effort to make use of what Sam and Dean had gifted him, so he carefully shaved, only cutting himself once. He rinsed away the remainder of the shaving cream and delicately pressed a small dot of toilet paper over the cut, the tissue quickly sticking with a fine, red spot in the middle. In the mirror, what almost resembled his old self looked back at him. He sighed. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he swore he already looked older. Maybe it was because he certainly felt like it. Like his bones were turning to stone. Each joint ached upon sitting down and standing up. Looking closer, he touched the pale bags under his eyes and wondered if all humans were this aware of their bodies slowly but surely wasting away. What a curse that must be, were his assumptions right. He again felt a newfound sympathy for people, and a hatred for his father who so clearly created humanity this way: so impermanent and fragile.

Cas jumped when there was a sudden and loud rap at the door. It was a persistent knocking that got him scrambling to open it, unable to think first about the state he was in. Dean stood there, impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other, dressed only in a pair of cheetah print boxers and a white V-neck tee. Castiel blinked, genuinely surprised, and couldn’t help but stare at Dean’s animal-printed groin. Dean swiftly crossed his hands over his crotch, trying hopelessly to conceal his underwear from Cas who had clearly already seen them.

“Uh, I thought you were Sam,” Dean said, a pale pink appearing at the apples of his cheeks. Slowly, he tugged the hem of his shirt down, somehow trying to make it into a dress of sorts. By doing so, the shallow V-cut deepened, revealing the anti-possession tattoo on his chest.

“Sam’s still in bed, I think,” Cas said, trying to retain some sense of composure. It was difficult to focus his eyes where he knew it was polite to look. Since when had Dean owned cheetah print boxers anyway? And Cas couldn’t actually remember a time he had seen Dean wearing this particular shirt either.

“Right. Of course he is,” Dean muttered, still swaying from one foot to the other. He caught Castiel staring at him in confusion, and his blush quickly darkened from pink to red. “It’s laundry day,” he explained sheepishly.

“Right. Of course it is,” Cas said.

Dean paused. His swaying ceased. “You shaved…” He brushed Cas’ chin with his fingertip.

“I did.” Cas didn’t look away from Dean’s face.

Dean’s gaze travelled downwards, and Cas became acutely aware that he only had a towel sitting low on his hips. He hadn’t thought to take a change of clothes with him as the excursion to the bathroom had been a last minute decision. With embarrassment flushing in his own cheeks, he pulled at the towel, trying to hold it more securely around his waist. Dean never looked away and his hands pulled his shirt even further down, surely irreversibly stretching the material. He suddenly seemed more concerned than ever about masking his unusual choice of underwear. They stood frozen, both stealing glances at one another before withdrawing, Cas feigning disinterest when really his every instinct was urging him to move Dean’s hands out of the way and to slip his fingers inside the material to the flesh beneath. He knew he couldn’t, so he didn’t, but he struggled to hide this intense desire. Dean licked his lips, and Cas watched the pink tip of his tongue delicately tracing the corners of his mouth. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on his towel until his knuckles started to turn white.

“Err, you should—,” Dean started, sidling in a little closer. Something meaningful glistened in his eyes, and he moved with definitive motive. Dean knew what he was doing and what he wanted. Cas, however, was far too perplexed to imagine what that could be. They both heard a door opening down the hall and Dean swiftly stepped backward, using one hand to scratch awkwardly at his chin. “—Use less conditioner next time,” Dean blurted, visibly wincing. His voice echoed down the hall.

“What?” Cas asked. He was so startled he almost dropped his towel. Tentatively, he reached up and touched his damp hair, wondering what was wrong with it.

“Nah, man, it’s just… I noticed the other night that the conditioner was starting to run a little low. And I know it wasn’t Sam because he has his own fancy-pants brand that he uses half a bottle of per wash. You know, conditioner isn’t as cheap as you would think. And I can’t run out to the store every other day. So could you cut back a bit?”

“Oh, I, uh, didn’t realise,” Cas stammered, his cheeks now red for a whole different reason. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll use less from now on.”

“Yeah, thanks. Cool. I mean, not a big issue but—,” Dean dipped his head, his jaw tensing.

“No, I get it,” Cas interjected quickly, “I’m sorry, again, Dean.”

Dean sighed heavily and glanced down the hallway just as Sam turned the corner.

“Yeah, me too, Cas. Me too,” Dean muttered before edging his way around Cas and closing the bathroom door between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, guys! I hope you liked this chapter... as things slowly start to heat up haha. Keep an eye out for more chapters to come :D


	4. Drunk

Dean was clearly exhausted when he stumbled into Castiel’s room the following morning. Cas could actually smell the faint scent of beer emanating off of Dean. He realised the hunter must have been drinking into the night, but he couldn’t estimate for how long or how many bottles he had consumed. At the very least, Dean seemed mostly capable of walking what was almost a straight line, and he was clearly aware as to why he was there. It seemed like a premeditated decision rather than one made on a drunken whim. Cas sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He could feel his hair almost standing on end, probably having tossed back and forth throughout the night; he remembered doing so long before he fell into the clutches of sleep. Yesterday he had gotten far too close to acting upon his desires, and he knew what kind of consequences would have followed had he done so. He couldn’t dare risk making such a mistake—another mistake of a different calibre. Only when he felt he had decently reprimanded himself did he close his eyes and sleep.

Once again, his blankets were tangled tightly around his legs, and he wordlessly started to free himself from them whilst Dean’s back was turned. Dean fumbled with the stereo, dropping a couple of the tapes he had brought with him to the floor, but he somehow managed to pick them up without falling over. Cas really struggled to ascertain the level of his intoxication. He wasn’t sure at what point he should intervene if he even should at all. Finally, Dean fixed the cassette into the stereo and turned the volume down low until Cas could barely hear it at all. Choosing not to argue it, Cas automatically scooted over to one side of his small bed, the same way he always did, but this time Dean paused to pull his shirt off, and then lifted the blankets and clambered under them. Cas, though previously tired, immediately felt very awake.

 Dean never, not under any circumstances, got under the covers.

He always protested against the heat in Castiel’s room, claiming he was sweating enough as it was just being there, but Cas had always suspected that there may have been something more to it. Something Dean didn’t wish to voice, and Cas wouldn’t dare pressure him to explain. Now, all previously unspoken aversions disappeared. Dean got comfortable and Cas was highly aware of the skin of Dean’s thighs against his own, and Dean’s arm pressed flush against his, and Dean’s breath hot against his neck. Now that Dean was closer, Cas could more distinctly smell the beer on his breath, though it was mixed with a definite tang of mint toothpaste. Even brushing his teeth hadn’t been enough to mask his night of drinking, so Castiel suspected that Dean had most definitely had enough to get suitably drunk.

“Dean?” Cas asked cautiously.

Dean shuffled in closer, his eyes closed and lips parted, almost as though he was already on the verge of sleep. Peering at Dean’s watch, Cas realised it was only three in the morning, a couple hours earlier than Dean’s usual time of visitation. Something had brought him from the comfort of his own bed to instead settle himself in the confined, overly warm space of Castiel’s.

“Dean?” Cas tried again when there was no response; not so much as a grunt of acknowledgment from the hunter. Perhaps he had already fallen unconscious?

“Cas,” Dean answered finally, his voice slurring, the word drawn out long.

“Are you drunk?” Cas asked timidly. He wasn’t able to remain sitting up as Dean was so close to him now with one arm draped over his stomach. Cas lied down, his head back on his pillow, but he kept his eyes focused on Dean. It was pointless to ask. It was clear to him now that Dean was, without a doubt, intoxicated.

“Little bit,” Dean admitted, licking his lips again. And again, Cas watched, entranced. Up this close, he was better able to see Dean’s pale—almost secret—freckles, and what was evidently stubble that had been shaved only yesterday or the day before. He saw the smallest dot of toothpaste at the very corner of Dean’s bottom lip. Gently, and ever so cautiously, Cas reached up and brushed the toothpaste away with his thumb.

“Are you okay?” Cas knew how Dean had a tendency to turn to drink in response to emotional turmoil, whether it be guilt or remorse or stress, or something else entirely. He wondered if this particular spree was one of those times.

“Uh huh,” Dean nodded briefly, smacking his lips, “Sam and I… had a few beers.”

“And I imagine you had a few more than him?” Cas guessed.

“Uh huh,” Dean said again. His arm tightened around Castiel’s middle. Their legs started to intertwine.

“Are you going to be sick? Should I get you a bucket? Some water?”

“No, I’m fine,” Dean dismissed him, “I just want to sleep.”

Castiel was hesitant. He took no issue with sharing his bed with Dean, not even if he were to take all the covers or more than his fair share of the mattress. It didn’t matter if Dean were to snore loudly in his ear or kick him in his sleep. Quite honestly, and perhaps pathetically, Cas was willing to give Dean whatever he wanted, especially whenever he was drunk or ill. Cas felt the natural instinct to take care of Dean like he was his… well, like his guardian angel. Maybe once upon a time, Castiel was something akin to that, but those days had long since passed them. The truth of the matter was, had Cas really been a guardian, he had been a piss poor one. He had done little more than complicate the Winchesters’ lives; Dean’s in particular. No amount of care and attention now could ever remedy that, though that didn’t keep him from trying.

“Okay… just let me know if you change your mind. I can get you whatever you want,” Cas offered gently. He finally closed his eyes, his brow furrowing.

“I’ve got everything I want right here,” Dean assured him, squeezing Castiel’s side. His leg brushed between Cas’ shins, and then suddenly Dean’s thigh was pressed between his legs against his groin. Cas took in a few steady breaths and tried to subtly angle himself away, but it was hopeless. At least Dean seemed too drunk and tired to notice anything.

“Would you like me to turn off the light?” Cas asked, clearing his throat.

“No. Don’t move,” Dean said quickly, his breath hot against Cas’ neck, right below his ear. Castiel shivered and the hairs on his arms stood on end.

Castiel did as Dean asked, just as he had inwardly set out to do. He couldn’t argue Dean’s request, especially when the hunter was in such a vulnerable state. It would seem cruel to reject Dean’s affections; as innocent as they were. Cas simply couldn’t turn him away or leave him isolated in the bed. Not that Cas could actually leave even if he wanted to. Dean had such a precise hold on him that made it impossible to turn over, let alone get out of bed. His embrace was warm, and it was so encompassing; so complete. As Dean nuzzled ever closer, Cas felt all the more wanted. Their bodies perfectly curved into one another’s, somehow, each edge of theirs fitting into the empty space of the other. Cas believed there wasn’t a way for them to be any closer. Finally, with the sheer relief that was the solidity of Dean in and at his side, Cas closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away into sweet dreams.

 And he found, with no quarrel about it, that his dreams were no different from his reality.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Cas awoke, before he even had the chance to open his eyes, he felt a cold emptiness at his side. He brushed his hand across the bare mattress, confirming his suspicion that Dean was no longer there. He must have left some time before, as the surface was stone cold, almost as if he had never been there to begin with. Cas wouldn’t put it past himself to have actually imagined the whole thing, so for a brief moment, he started to believe that perhaps he really had. But then, glancing over at the stereo, he saw that it was still switched on. It was completely silent, the side of the tape having long since ended, but it was still evidence enough to prove that Dean really had stumbled in at three am to sleep at his side. Cas got up and drifted over to his desk, switching off the stereo with one hand and readjusting his pyjama bottoms over his uncomfortable morning wood with the other. He hoped Dean hadn’t seen or felt the hard bulge pressed against his back or hip. With a pang of mortification, Cas thought maybe that was the reason why Dean had left without waking him. A part of him dreaded leaving his room now. It was the part of him that strongly insisted he stay there… forever. But his stomach grumbled, and he felt sickly at having eaten nothing for so many hours. He knew he had little choice but to brave the world outside of his own room, and so he walked swiftly to the bathroom, not granting himself enough time to hesitate or back out entirely. It was the quickest shower he had taken in a long time, with the water pressure and icy temperature like needles pricking the skin of his back. He stood shivering with his arms crossed protectively over his chest until, finally, it was safe for him to turn the tap off and step out. With his stomach once again rumbling, he dressed in another set of Dean’s clothes and left the flannel shirt unbuttoned over a slightly oversized plain black tee. He adjusted the buckle on his belt as he exited the bathroom.

As he drew nearer to the kitchen, he could hear Sam and Dean talking, but their voices were coming from the library. Cas bypassed the kitchen which, he noted, was absent of any cooking smells, and continued onwards to join the brothers—despite his every instinct warning him not to. He knew he couldn’t possibly hide from them forever—Dean especially—though the idea certainly appealed to him. It seemed best to face his worst fears head on and let the humiliation wash over him in one foul swoop.

“Morning,” he greeted, looking solely at Dean. The hunter’s back visibly stiffened and he did not turn around to face him the way Sam quickly did. Cas realised that they were both packing their duffel bags and sorting out their belongings on the table as their unfolded clothing assumedly didn’t fit when shoving them in the first time. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Cas knew that, once again, Sam and Dean were leaving him.

“Hey, Cas, sleep well?” Sam smiled timidly. He threw a cutting look at Dean’s back, as though trying to say _‘I told you so’_.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Cas muttered, also throwing a cutting look at Dean. Dean had clearly endeavoured to leave for another hunt without so much as telling him. He was going to allow Cas to wake to an empty bunker, with probably just a note to explain where it was they had gone. Even worse, Cas imagined, the note would have likely said nothing more than _‘Hunting. Be back later.’_ Lest Dean ever give Castiel enough information that would allow him to follow. Suddenly livid, Cas said through gritted teeth, “It was too warm though. Uncomfortable. Like I was being suffocated.”

Sam frowned and lowered his duffel bag, a little taken aback by Cas’ aggravation. But Dean understood. He glanced only briefly over his shoulder before looking purposely away, one hand reaching up to rub firmly at his temple.

“I still need to see if I can fix the heating,” Sam said finally, his eyes dipped in apology.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cas dismissed him, “I woke up this morning and felt cold as ice.”

“Weird,” Sam murmured uncomfortably and cleared his throat. He looked lost standing there, his bag hanging open and half-filled at his side, his other hand still clutching onto a couple of flannel shirts. “I guess… let me know if it gets bad again?”

Neither Cas nor Dean said anything and the tension steadily grew deafening. Sam feigned hearing his phone ringing somewhere in the distance and swiftly fled to answer it, the bulge of his phone in his pocket evident to all of them as he went.

“I was gonna wake you in a minute and let you know we were heading off,” Dean offered.

Castiel wasn’t good at telling lies, and he wasn’t good at knowing when he was being lied to, either. Either Dean wasn’t trying very hard to be convincing, or the lie was so profoundly a lie that it could never have passed for truth.

“Were you?”

“Of course.”

“I find that hard to believe, considering…” Castiel gestured to Dean’s bag and the ammo that sat boxed on the table.

Dean winced but shrugged dismissively, acting as though he had done nothing worth apologising for. And maybe he was right. Cas, after all, had no claim over the brothers. They didn’t owe him anything, and he had no right to demand notification of their whereabouts. Cas had no real reason to be informed on their travels as they went from state to state, city to city, on various hunts. While it eased his peace of mind to hear their voices and to be reassured of their safety, it wasn’t his place to demand it. Dean could, and would, go wherever he liked, whenever he wanted, and whoever with.

Cas dipped his head ever so slightly. “I’m sorry,” he offered quietly.

“It’s all good,” Dean accepted the apology but looked ashamed for doing so. He rubbed the back of his neck roughly.

Castiel scuffed the floor lightly with his bare foot and shoved his hands unceremoniously into the pockets of his jeans. Dean slowly turned his back and resumed packing, messily folding his shirts and tucking them into his bag. After a moment of awkward silence, Cas stepped forward to assist him. He took more care in folding multiple pairs of jeans and repacked what Dean had done, making everything fit better with room to spare.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” Cas said. He zipped up the duffel bag, focusing all his attention on the task so he had an excuse for avoiding Dean’s gaze. The hunter was looking at him again with the same intensity that he reserved for times of immense concern. He was worried about Castiel. Or perhaps _for_ him. In his peripheral vision, Cas saw Dean sidle in closer, one hand reaching out for his side. Cas moved out of reach.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Dean said, “it was shitty of me to stumble in like that. I didn’t do anything too stupid, did I?”

“No. Nothing too stupid.” Castiel peered up at him. “Hungover?”

“Only a little,” Dean admitted, “I’ve been worse. But… thanks for letting me crash. If it ever happens again, just know you’re free to kick me out if you want.”

“I didn’t want to kick you out.” Castiel decided not to tell Dean how he wished that he would sleep beside him in the bed like that more often. He decided not to say how nice it felt to have Dean curling into his side with his arm draped over his waist. Cas decided it wasn’t wise to admit how much he liked the feel of Dean’s thigh pressed against his crotch and the heat of his breath against his neck. Castiel blushed at the thought of it. “You’re uh… welcome anytime, Dean. After all, the bunker is your home. I’m just a guest here.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, his eyes clearly focusing on the pink shade of Cas’ skin.

“You’re all ready to go,” Cas announced abruptly and gestured to Dean’s bag. His voice was quiet and lost; just a faint drone of nothingness to his own ears.

“We won’t be gone long,” Dean reassured him, his hand slowly lowering back to his side. “Sam thinks there’s a vamp nest in Marshall County, South Dakota. Should only take a couple days, tops.”

Castiel sighed, kicking the floor again lightly. His hands went back into his pockets. “I could go with you. The two of you will be easily outnumbered by an entire nest. I could help.”

“You know why you can’t, Cas,” Dean rejected the offer. “It’s not safe out there for you. The angels—”

“The angels what? I wouldn’t know, Dean, because you and Sam keep me in the dark.”

“It’s for your own good,” Dean remarked sternly.

“To not know where the angels are or what they are doing or who they could be hurting? How is that—?”

“Because there’s nothing you can do about it!” Dean snapped. He grabbed Cas’ arms tightly and squeezed.

Cas stared at him. He didn’t try to free himself from Dean’s grip even as it tightened. Dean’s chest was heaving, the skin of his neck and face turning red with a swelling rage. But there, in the green of his eyes, was a resounding pain. Castiel said nothing, his expression flat and unchanging despite Dean’s sudden proximity.

Dean faltered and finally withdrew, slowly letting go and taking two cautious steps backward. “We’ve already talked about this,” he mumbled.

“You talked. I gave in,” Cas said. He peered down the empty hallway, “I think Sam is waiting for you.”

Dean nodded, knowing he had been dismissed. He gathered his things, pausing to adjust the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Then he checked how much ammunition he had, taking his time to count each bullet before repackaging them. It was clear that he was delaying his departure on purpose. He was hoping that whatever had just broken between them could be fixed.

“You’ll be safe?” Cas asked.

“Of course. I’m always safe,” Dean promised him.

Castiel scoffed and stepped forward to gently poke Dean’s collarbone where he knew the healing scar hid beneath his shirt. “Don’t be reckless. I expect you to come home in one piece.”

“I will.”

Cas followed him toward the doorway and Dean suddenly stopped and turned to face him. Cas paused.

“And you’ll stay, won’t you, Cas?” Dean asked. He placed his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, his touch sliding across until his fingers were grazing the skin of his neck. When Cas didn’t answer him, Dean slowly, and ever so gently, moved his hand up and caressed his face. Dean’s thumb brushed across his cheek. “I want you to stay. Please.”

Castiel swallowed firmly and brusquely nodded his head. “I will,” he promised.

Appeased, Dean smiled before walking swiftly down the hall and disappearing around the corner, leaving a stunned Castiel behind in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this next chapter, guys! I hope you enjoyed this one :) Let me know what you thought in the comments, and keep an eye out for the next chapter!


	5. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel discovers one of Dean's secrets.

Cas stared at the television, a little taken aback by the notification that had popped up in place of the next episode. _‘Are you still watching ‘Breaking Bad’?_ it read. Castiel peered at his phone and realised how many hours had passed since he first sat down and started watching. There had been past incidences of a show ending unexpectedly. It was common for him to be totally unaware of how many episodes he had watched in a row, indicating just how much time he had spent in bed with his eyes glued to the screen. There was nothing else to do to pass the time. Mostly he cursed how few seasons there were to his favourite series’. By the time he had become captivated by certain characters or storylines, the show was over and he had to look for another and try to be as interested in their tale.

It was still somehow less exhausting than the constant messages and calls he received.

Sam and Dean had made a routine of pestering him various times throughout the day, always asking how he was and what he was doing, and insisting he look up lore for them that he was sure they already knew. They were trying to keep him busy from afar. Sam was subtle in his efforts to keep Cas on his feet: asking for his help and giving him various chores to complete within the confines of the bunker.

Dean, however, was more blatant.

He would text him early in the morning, sometimes one message after another until Cas replied, telling him he _‘better be out of bed or else’_ , only to call a few hours later to demand he eat something. Castiel could hear the concern in Dean’s voice emerging through the severe tone of his words. He knew that Dean, wherever he was now, was worried about him. After the first two nights of their absence, Dean had begun calling Cas in the early hours of the morning to substitute for his usual visits. Those were the only calls Cas truly welcomed. He and Dean would talk for an hour or two, avoiding the subject of where Dean was and what Castiel was doing, sometimes bickering about things like the foods Dean loved but Cas hated, or about the cassettes Dean had yet to acquire to share with him. Cas could sometimes hear the sound of cicadas chirping in the background, or the purr of a passing vehicle on the road, and even the occasional rumble of what he thought was an ice machine outside of a motel. He imagined Dean stepping outside, leaving Sam asleep in his bed, to call. His chest was flooded with warmth at the thought—that Dean wanted, for some reason or another, to speak privately with him.

But Cas inexplicably found himself longing for these calls less and less. By the seventh day of their absence, Cas switched his phone off at night and ignored the numerous text messages in the morning. He _wanted_ to want to talk to Sam and Dean, yet he didn’t. He took their unanswered phone calls as an indication of their continued survival and saw no reason to respond. Even now, as he sat and selected ‘Continue watching’ on the screen, he realised how little he remembered from the previous episodes, but also how little he actually cared. The stories he once sought to lose himself in could no longer captivate his attention. Nothing felt important anymore. And he could rationalise why it ought to matter, why he should get up and occupy his time, but he still couldn’t bring himself to act.

 In turn, the nightmares returned, ferocious in their torment and leaving him gasping for air and soaked in sweat. By the fifth day, his sheets needed to be washed, but he left them as they were. This, too, was something that held little to no importance. He thought about how much time humans spent washing sheets, making their beds with them, only to wash them again, and wondered how many days or weeks or months this would equal to in a single lifetime. And he wondered why it should matter. It seemed fruitless to do anything that would inevitably be undone. In truth, he considered giving up television as well—unplugging everything and remaining motionless in the dark. If only he could sleep the days away.

Cas fast-forwarded through the opening credits and tossed the remote down somewhere on the bed. He rubbed at his eyes and then brushed his knuckles across his chin, feeling the ever-growing facial hair. Cas knew, were he to look in a mirror, that he would resemble another person entirely; someone he didn’t even recognise. He had lost any and all motivation to maintain his appearance, just as he had done a month before. It was another of those meaningless chores that he no longer desired to do.

The same way he no longer bothered to watch the news, as he had done immediately upon Sam and Dean leaving on their hunt.

So far nothing had even resembled the doings of angels; no unexplained miracles or signs of supernatural mass destruction. It was far too quiet. After a while, Cas saw no point in looking. There was nothing he could do were he to see something informative about his grounded brothers and sisters. They would never listen to him, and with good reason. Castiel could never rightfully tell them what they could and could not do. Forcing freedom and free will upon them had already proven futile in the past. Sam and Dean were likely right when they said that they would kill him at first sight—not that that fate would be anything less than what he deserved.

But his demise wouldn’t truly change anything. It was best he suffer on Earth with them unless he found, by some miracle, a way to rectify his mistakes.

Castiel’s phone began to ring as it hit 4am, as per the new routine, and he fumbled around his bedsheets for the remote. When he couldn’t find it, he answered his phone and held it between his shoulder and ear whilst he continued the search.

“Cas? What is that? What are you watching?” Dean asked, almost shouting over the noise of Breaking Bad. “Who’s talking? ... Is that Walter White?”

“Yes, I think so,” Cas answered, finally locating the remote by his feet. He hit mute; not caring enough about missing anything to hit pause instead.

“You think so? You aren’t sure?”

“Do you ever think how much time people spend worrying about putting names and faces together? Does any of it really matter?” Cas asked, sitting up with his back against the headboard.

“Doesn’t it? Oh, I don’t know, Cas, I thought it seemed important not to accidentally call the man who does your prostate exam Dad or the woman from the bar you drunkenly slept with Mum. Don’t you agree?”

“Those seem like far-fetched examples,” Cas huffed, rubbing his eyes again with his free hand.

“It could happen,” Dean said.

Castiel heard a car drive past in the background and a strange metallic clang. “Where are you?” He asked.

“At a gas station in Sioux Falls,” Dean explained, “after the vamp nest in Marshall County we went to a suspected poltergeist case in Huron, which turned out to be a big, fat dead end. Then Sam insisted we check out an odd death in Baltic which turned out to be a genuine haunting. Now we’re stopping by Sioux Falls.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do all this crap,” Dean said dismissively. “I’m surprised you actually answered. Most of my calls have been going straight to voicemail.”

“I’ve been busy,” Cas lied.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dean scoffed, “doing what?”

Castiel was silent. He didn’t have a lie prepared to answer for his days alone in the bunker. With a pang of frustration, he realised he should have thought of one in advance and perhaps practiced it aloud to himself to have it sound somewhat believable—if that was at all possible.

“Sam says I shouldn’t worry,” Dean continued on when the silence became deafening.

“Sam’s right,” Castiel assured him, “I’m alive. I’m breathing. I’m in the bunker. What is there to worry about?”

“Yeah, cause that’s reassuring,” Dean said.

For once, Cas actually recognised the drone of sarcasm and he seriously considered hanging up. He thought of how satisfying it would be to cut Dean off midsentence with nothing but the dial tone ringing in his ear. The grip on his phone tightened slightly and a faint heat crept up the back of his neck. As Dean continued to ramble—lecturing him on the importance of eating at least three meals a day and the benefits of exercising (as expressed numerous times by Sam)—Castiel’s infuriation intensified.

“I’m hanging up now,” he announced loudly, interrupting Dean. Dean immediately fell silent. Cas hesitated—too polite to follow through with his threat.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said finally, “I don’t mean to pester you all the time. I dunno, I just… I think I’m so used to taking care of Sam, you know? Growing up, it was my job to make sure he ate and I had to look after him when he was sick. I was taught to take a bullet for him. It’s instinctual now to look after the people I care about.”

Castiel sighed, finally easing and loosening the tension in his back and shoulders. “I know you only mean well. But I don’t want to be pitied, Dean. I don’t want you to parent me.”

“Okay then, well, I’ll stop,” Dean promised.

Cas waited a moment, then sighed. “Thank you.”

“There are some tapes in my room,” Dean said, “some artists and tracks I never got around to showing you.”

“I can listen to them on my own?” Castiel was apprehensive. That was something he and Dean had always done together. It didn’t seem right to listen without him.

“Of course. They’re in my bedside table,” Dean said, suddenly sounding pleased by the idea. “Listen to them and tell me what you think. But just know, if you dare say anything—and I do mean anything—bad about _Bob Seger’s ‘Night Moves’_ I will have to kill you.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” Cas asked, smiling a little.

“…Okay. Maybe I’ll just smack you around a little instead. The point is, you can’t hate it. Hell, you can’t just _like_ it either. You will _love_ it.” Dean insisted. Cas could tell that Dean was likely getting animated with his hands as he spoke, as he often did when he was passionate about the topic.

“I won’t promise anything,” Cas playfully taunted.

Dean groaned. “Don’t tease me. It’s not an empty threat, I promise you that.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“You’ll feel like a fool when you give it a listen and recognise its genius,” Dean said. “You will listen, won’t you?”

He sounded eager. Hopeful. Castiel couldn’t disappoint him.

“I will,” Cas promised, “since you’ll nag me otherwise.” He smiled again and fiddled with a loose thread on his blanket.

“I never nag,” Dean mocked offence.

“Sam would beg to differ.”

“Sam’s a wuss. You ask him to do anything and he thinks he’s being nagged.”

“If you say so,” Cas said. He imagined what Sam would have to say to that.

There was a long pause, and then Dean awkwardly cleared his throat. “I miss you,” he said quietly.

“I miss you too.” Cas didn’t hesitate to say so. He’d been thinking it this entire time.

“I didn’t think I’d be gone this long,” Dean sighed, “I’m on the road a lot, but this time I’m actually starting to feel homesick.”

There was an evident dip in Dean’s tone. He was quieter, speaking almost at a whisper, and each word seemed to linger for a few seconds too long. Cas listened closely, phone pressed firmly to his ear, the hand that had been fiddling with his blanket pausing with the thread tightly pinched between two fingers. He’d been feeling homesick too, but not for Heaven. Home was wherever Dean was.

“Will you be home soon?” Cas asked hopefully, his own voice softening to match Dean’s.

“I hope so. I swear all things that go bump in the night only come out to play when I least want them too. Whenever I’m itching for a fight everything goes dead silent. It’s shit luck.”

“Shit luck,” Cas agreed.

“Love it when you talk dirty,” Dean teased.

“Well, shit is dirty in the literal sense. Though, did you know that Ancient Egyptians used pessary made of dried crocodile dung as a form of contraception?”

“No… no, I did not. And I kinda wish I still didn’t,” Dean laughed.

“It’s fascinating to think how far humans have advanced since then,” Cas continued. He had lost all interest in everything since Sam and Dean left, and somehow that interest just reignited. Talking to Dean distracted him from all of life’s irrelevances. He felt like he had valid things to say, and he knew Dean would genuinely listen.

“Thank god they did,” Dean said, “it’s good to know I live in a better era.”

“We live in a more hygienic century,” Cas agreed.

There was a sudden and faint dial tone that Cas didn’t recognise. He frowned, straining to hear if Dean was still on the other line.  

“Ah shit, Cas, Sam’s trying to call me,” Dean said, clearly reluctant to hang up.

Castiel knew Sam must have just woken up to find Dean’s bed empty. Cas imagined how disconcerting a sight that would be, considering the lives that they lived.

Dean murmured quietly into the phone, “I better go. Get some sleep, yeah? And listen to those tapes.”

Cas honestly didn’t feel ready to say goodbye or goodnight, but he knew he couldn’t keep Sam waiting, and Dean deserved a decent night’s sleep after the long week he had just endured. He swallowed the “don’t go” that he wanted to say, and instead said; “I will. I’ll see you soon.” The farewell felt less permanent that way as if Dean’s return was imminent rather than a distant idea.

“Not soon enough,” Dean conceded. He didn’t seem pleased by the uncertainty either. Nor did he sound prepared to say goodbye. “I’ll call tomorrow,” he promised.

“I’ll be here,” Cas said, hanging up after Dean did.

He set his phone aside and clambered out of bed, his bare feet touching the cold tiles for what felt like the first time in forever. Without allowing himself much time for thought, he gathered up his sheets and blankets, stripped the pillows, and carried the dirty bundle to the laundry. He wasn’t much good with laundry. He’d accidentally dyed multiple pairs of Dean’s underwear a baby pink, not realising he was supposed to separate the colours from the whites. A few days later he’d seen a flash of Dean’s pink waistband as he bent down to retrieve something, and, had he not still felt guilty for the mistake, he would have laughed. Right now, he actually blushed to think that Dean likely still owned and wore them. Cas grinned, thinking how nicely they must pair in the dresser with Dean’s cheetah print boxers. Cas liked to think he had accidentally made an improvement on Dean’s usual layers of denim and flannel, even if they were obscured by the said layers.

Cas put on a load of washing and left it to complete its cycle, taking a shower and shaving his face whilst he waited. The effort still felt like his feet were buried in cement; as if he were dragging the weight with every step. He tried to ignore the sensation and did as he knew he ought to. He took care of himself. Cas changed into a fresh pair of pyjamas, recognising them as one of Sam’s pair of pants—the legs were far too long and bunched up at the ankles, almost tripping him at his feet—and Dean’s shirt. It smelt like him: like spiced cologne and whiskey. He pulled at the waistband of his pants every now and then as he walked to Dean’s room, aware that he could slip at any moment, but he paused at his door.

Dean had given him permission to enter, but he still felt as though he was intruding. The years of misunderstanding personal space had finally led to him knowing to knock before entering. He had never actually been in either of the brothers’ rooms without their presence and had actually spent little time there. Rarely, he’d actually venture past the doorway, but never stayed long, and never truly got a decent look. Cas opened the door, waited a moment as if something were to bite if he entered, and then finally stepped inside and switched on the light. Dean’s room was cleaner than he expected. Or rather more organised. Even if he didn’t truly understand it, he knew it made sense to Dean; there was a method to everything from the placement of his few books to the layout of weapons propped up on his wall. Cas stopped and looked at them, tracing the sharp ridge of the Purgatory blade with his finger. It just barely cut his skin, and he sucked at the wound idly as he turned his back to the wall. That blade brought back memories he didn’t truly wish to retain—Purgatory was a place he would much rather forget.

Cas peered at Dean’s small desk and at the contents that were neatly placed on top and then knelt down to open the drawers. He couldn’t honestly remember where Dean had told him the tapes were, whether they were in his desk or his bedside table, and which drawer of the three in each. It felt wrong, but Cas was reduced to trial and error as he opened the first, the second and then the last without success. Dean’s desk drawers were more cluttered for the most part—the contents of some almost seemingly tossed in without much regard, with some unnameable items in the midst that Cas assumed Dean never actually used. He ensured they were all properly shut before moving to the bedside table. Within the second drawer, he found the vast collection of tapes and gathered them neatly in his arms. As he stood, two tapes fell and he winced at hearing them hit the floor, fearing he may have broken them. Immediately he bent to retrieve them, all the while taking care not to drop anymore, and noticed something peeking out from beneath Dean’s mattress. Castiel hesitated, aware that whatever Dean had stashed there likely wasn’t meant for his eyes, but his curiosity was impossible to ignore. Swiftly, he set the cassettes down and carefully pulled the mystery item free.

It was a magazine.

Not just any magazine, however.

The cover displayed a distinctly pornographic image. This couldn’t actually shock Castiel anymore. He had grown far too accustomed to Dean’s taste for pornography, having born witness to his online stash of videos and images one too many times, and noting the organised stack of vintage magazines on Dean’s mantle. But this particular magazine differed in one very distinct way. The cover depicted a shirtless man flexing his arms with his hands behind his head. Cas couldn’t be certain as the picture cut off at the hipbones, but he got the impression that the man was entirely naked. His brow furrowed, and he thought how he should probably put it back as he had found it and leave. Instead, he sat at the edge of Dean’s bed and turned the cover. Flipping slowly through the pages, Cas took note of which corners were most worn and tried not to think of the implications. His eyes drifted over the photos, his attention lingering probably longer than it should.

It was more than curiosity.

He felt a definite shift and a growing swell in his pyjama bottoms and tried to ignore it. Physical instinct, he reminded himself. But then he thought of Dean sitting in the exact same spot looking at the exact same photos, and the bulge in his pants hardened further. He thought about Dean feeling the same sexual urge, and imagined him taking his own erection into his hand and stroking down his length. Castiel pictured Dean moaning, almost writhing there on the bed in ecstasy as the naked men brought him to orgasm. Cas groaned, turning the page one more time and settling on a page with an especially wrinkled corner. He couldn’t help himself now. He reached into his waistband and freed his hard cock. Cas stroked himself; a raw and passionate and quick heat. His member was swiftly slick with pre-come; warm and wet in his palm. The magazine now sat almost entirely forgotten beside him on the bed, his mind focused instead on Dean: on what he longed to do to him, and what he wanted Dean to do to him in return. He imagined kissing him, licking and sucking at the skin of his neck and biting his collarbones and flicking his nipples with his tongue.

He thought about how Dean must want this—the magazine proved it.

 Dean must want to be held by strong, calloused hands; to feel a man’s muscle beneath his hands; to have the hard prod of an erect cock at his ass. Castiel groaned again, stroking harder and faster, his other hand grasping wildly at the sheets beneath him. He imagined taking Dean’s cock into his mouth and licking from the base to the tip, pulling a gasped curse from Dean’s lips. He imagined the vulgarity. The absolute filth Dean would say in the midst of passion, each word more immediate and desperate the closer he came to climax. Castiel wanted to do that to him—to make Dean lose all control.

Castiel felt the tightening in his stomach and testicles; the glorious sensations ridding him now of all thought and reason. He laid back on the bed, pumping furiously at his cock, his wrist moving almost disjointedly as he lost the ability to truly control his limbs. His lips parted with a final cry of ecstasy, his eyes closing as he came. Warmth slipped between his fingers, and his movements slowed, stroking himself gently through his high. His chest heaved, his breath hot and heavy against his dry lips, and he sat up uneasily. Weakness robbed his legs of use, the tremors in his knees keeping him sat there at the edge of Dean’s bed. Without even realising it, he had knocked the stack of tapes over and the blankets beneath him were knotted at his lower back. He stared at the blank ceiling for a few moments. Where it once felt like an ever-shrinking tomb, it now felt expansive—endless.

But it remained just as daunting to him.

Finally, after a few minutes, Castiel stood and retrieved a tissue or two from the box beside Dean’s bed to clean himself. He neatened the blankets and gathered the tapes into his arms before leaving the room in a hurry as though he had never been there to begin with.

His mind was in a fluster. He had most definitely done something he shouldn’t have. He knew this crossed a line of some kind—broken a rule he knew never to break. Castiel had done something so unspeakable and inappropriate in a space that wasn’t his own. Dean could never know. There was no physical sign to suggest he hadn’t just done exactly what Dean had granted him to. Yet Cas feared that Dean somehow knew already, despite being hours away in Sioux Falls. His immense guilt and embarrassment convinced him that Dean, either in his car or back in his bed, already suspected what he had just done, down to the last miniscule detail. And Cas thought—as irrational as the idea was—that Dean would return with accusations already on his tongue. All Cas could do was apologise, but he knew no number of repentant words could ever justify or remedy his actions. A part of him hoped that Dean would somehow understand, but he knew how slim the possibility was. Were it him, he likely wouldn’t fathom the reasoning behind it. But Dean was different. Dean was more experienced, adventurous, and even somewhat ambiguous—it was actually difficult to assume what Dean did or did not like, as there was more to him than Cas thought he knew. Dean always found a way to surprise him.

 Dean had always urged Cas to try and explore his own sexual interests—as limited as they once were—and suggested on multiple occasions that he browse a range of pornography, to physically explore himself, and to discover what he liked. Castiel had always dismissed him, a little embarrassed by the subject since he knew so little. He understood the anatomy of the entire process—perhaps more intricately than was truly necessary—but he was still rather oblivious to what Dean told him actually mattered.

On occasion, a woman would pause to speak to him, often bending down and protruding their sizable bust in his direction, their eyes peering at him through their lashes, and he would reply awkwardly until they seemed to lose interest and walk away. Dean would slap his shoulder lightly, his eyes wide in disbelief, his lips actually parted in dismay. _“Cas! She was into you! You cannot tell me that she wasn’t your type. A girl like that is everyone’s type.”_ Dean had said once, much to Castiel’s confusion. He recalled shaking his head and looking back over his shoulder, unable to see her amidst the crowd of people. _“That was a flirtation?”_ He had asked uncertainly. Dean, with his forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut tight, shook his head, discomfited by the whole ordeal. _“You’re clueless,”_ he had sighed.

Castiel felt he hadn’t advanced very far since then. He was usually still oblivious to such things, only sensing the implications on occasion, but even then he never knew how to act on them. By now his interest only really seemed to focus on Dean, and though he had known the hunter for all these years, he was just as lost as to what he ought to say. Flirting was a distinct impossibility. He was no good with suggestive words or seductive forms of flattery. Whereas Dean was ridiculously charming and confident—he drew people in without even having to try. Cas sometimes felt weak simply from meeting Dean’s eye and seeing that devilish grin. How could he ever approach Dean and tell him how he now felt the very sensation that Dean had always urged him to feel? How could he when it was Dean whom he wanted to touch and kiss and pleasure?

He couldn’t.

He decided as much quite quickly; certain about it by the time he had made it to his room and deposited the tapes onto his desk. His head still felt like it was spinning. The heat wouldn’t leave his face. He felt dirty so he went and showered for the second time in less than an hour before settling on his own bed with a tape playing in the background. He had truly intended to listen in an attempt to distract himself with the new tunes Dean had specifically wanted for him to hear, but he couldn’t. His mind was elsewhere. Castiel’s thoughts still lingered in Dean’s room, on Dean’s bed, pleasuring himself to mental images of Dean writhing with pleasure beneath him. Castiel could hear the music but it sounded like it was miles away. Nothing actually stuck, not the words or the melody, and then the tape ended, all that time between somehow missing without Cas even noticing where it had gone. He got up and rewound the tape to try and listen again, but it was no use.

In the confines of his small room, Castiel still felt the burden of the cavernous bunker with all its long and narrow hallways, and the seemingly endless number of rooms, with the ever-looming world just outside. The guilt and shame was suffocating him. He wondered—with some irrational frustration—why, with everything the bunker _did_ have, it _didn’t_ have any windows. There was no real air to breathe. Or at least it felt like it. He longed to leave just as much as his depression longed for him to stay.

In the end, at Dean’s request, he stayed.

Grudgingly, and without much success, Cas continued to play the same tape over and over again, getting up each time he realized the room had fallen silent. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought hours had already passed, the time fleeting and empty. He remembered his bedding in the washing machine but found no genuine interest in retrieving them and hanging them up to dry. Nor did he bother to collect a dry set of sheets to make his stripped bed. Instead, he laid down atop the bare mattress and rested his head back against his naked pillow with his arms crossed over his chest. With his eyes closed, the time continuing to fade like sand in an hourglass, Castiel finally, and with some relief, managed to focus his attention away from Dean’s room long enough to drift into a faint slumber.

And his dreams, having denied himself the right to have them, were too blissful to deny: he and Dean side by side, hands clasped tightly together, the taste of Dean’s kisses still on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... things are most definitely HEATING up. Who's excited for the next chapter? :P Like always, thanks for reading, guys! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. I always love reading your comments. I appreciate the feedback so much and it really keeps me going :)


	6. Truth

Castiel awoke to a figure looming over him. He jumped and nearly fell from the bed, his legs flailing without any cover to contain them. Dean laughed heartily, his eyes alight with misdeed and amusement. Cas gripped the mattress tightly to regain his balance and knocked the corner of his bedside table with his elbow, causing the stack of books there to fall. Dean grinned, unbothered by the mess. He sat at the edge of the bed and leaned back on his elbows with one knee propped up.

“Hey there, Jumpy,” Dean greeted, “did I frighten you with my devastatingly good looks?” He gave a suggestive wink, chuckling to himself. Something had Dean in good spirits—Cas assumed the comfort of home had something to do with it.

Castiel hadn’t yet recovered from the shock. He ran his hands through his dishevelled hair, ruffling it into a bigger mess. Blinking harshly, he took a moment to properly appraise Dean. The hunter looked tired as if he hadn’t slept properly for the past week, which was most likely true. Despite the faint bags under his eyes and the slight paleness to his skin, Dean appeared completely unharmed. The excessive travelling and dangerous hunts hadn’t left any permanent evidence behind. With some rest and a hot shower, it would be as if Dean had never left. Castiel’s eyes panned down to ensure there weren’t any injuries he had missed and then, with his gaze drifting to Dean’s denim-clad crotch, he remembered what he had done some hours prior.

“Uh… no,” Cas said sheepishly. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and scooted even further to the edge of the bed until he had to put one foot on the floor to balance himself. “What are you doing back? Where’s Sam?”

“I came back early,” Dean explained, pleased with himself. “Sam’s staying in Sioux Falls with Jody for a while to clear some stuff up.”

Castiel tried not to be too thrilled at having Dean home… and all to himself.

“What happened to your bed?” Dean asked, gesturing to the naked state of Castiel’s mattress and pillows.

“Washed the sheets,” Cas muttered. He sat up properly and turned his back to Dean, feigning the need to stretch. He was terrified of meeting Dean’s eyes; to see the knowledge lurking there in the depths of his pupils; the shadowy threat of blame lingering in wait to grab him were he to look. What Castiel had done emitted more than a sense of embarrassment and fault. He felt unholy. Like the worst filth he could even imagine. Yet, at the time, he hadn’t any reservations and felt no guilt for the glorious pleasure. A part of him believed that he would do it again without more than a brief moment’s hesitance.

“Weren’t there any clean sheets?” Dean asked.

“No, there were. I just…” Cas paused to scratch behind his ear. He was sure the tips of them were tinted pink. “I fell asleep,” he decided. He thought it might be easiest to eliminate what had occurred in the time between putting his sheets in the wash and falling asleep here. The shower. The tapes. The magazine. The blissful moments of untethered sex as he masturbated to thoughts of Dean. And the second shower.

 All that time simply erased.

“You could have slept in my bed if you wanted. Nice clean sheets. And it doesn’t feel like 90 degrees in there either like it does here,” Dean offered, “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“No. This was acceptable,” Cas said quickly, “I didn’t think it was appropriate to go into your room.”

“You didn’t listen to the tapes then?” Dean asked, clearly a little disappointed.

“I haven’t had opportunity,” Cas confirmed. It didn’t feel like a complete lie, as he couldn’t honestly remember anything he had tried listening to. He eyed the stack of tapes peeking out slightly from behind the stereo. He saw, with horror, that the stereo was still switched on, the light blinking a tell-tale red. “I’m sorry. I will listen to them later. I promise.”

Dean stood up. Cas turned to watch him, purposely avoiding looking at his face. Stretching, Dean’s shirt rode up to reveal his bellybutton and the start of his hipbones. His biceps flexed beneath the rolled up sleeves of his unbuttoned flannel shirt. Castiel swallowed firmly and pinched a crusted spot on his pants. He had put on the same pair of pyjamas after showering the second time and hadn’t noticed this pale, practically colourless stain until now. Heat once again crept into his face and he pressed his palm over the mark, his body stiffening when he understood what it was. He mustn’t have cleaned up after himself that well after all.

“I’m going to shower,” Dean announced, making his way toward the open door.

“O…okay,” Cas stammered nervously.

Dean stopped and peered back at him, his expression littered with numerous questions. “You’re acting weird… what did I do?”

“Nothing,” Cas said. He bit his bottom lip tensely and also stood, keeping his hand over the dried cum on his pants. “Have a good shower.”

“Have a good shower?” Dean repeated, weighing the words individually in a futile attempt to find the hidden meaning. There was none. Castiel simply wanted Dean to leave so he could change his clothes and bury the evidence in the back of his closet. “Weird,” Dean whispered, shaking his head finally and leaving.

The tension eased from Cas’ shoulders, his muscles loosening when freed from Dean’s scrutiny. The hunter didn’t seem to know anything like Cas had previously feared. In fact, Dean seemed absolutely clueless—completely unaware of what had transpired in the privacy of his bedroom.

Perhaps Cas could keep it that way.

Maybe hope wasn’t as lost as he once thought. He had, after all, successfully kept secrets from Sam and Dean in the past. Whilst not being much good at it, lying still remained a possible option. The only option, in fact.

His relief was short-lived, however, as he remembered the tapes. He had stupidly claimed that he had never taken them, but Dean was sure to notice when he opened his drawer to find them missing. Lying had already proven to be the death of him. Cas changed his clothes before gathering the tapes in his arms. His only option now was to put them back exactly as he had found them whilst Dean was in the shower. But Dean wasn’t known to take excessively long showers, so Cas knew he had to be quick.

He swept through the halls swiftly with all the tapes clasped to his chest, his breath coming out fast, hot and heavy as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. The halls were ominously quiet with no indicators as to Dean’s whereabouts—he could only assume that Dean was already in the bathroom, or at least he hoped so. At Dean’s door, he knocked quietly only once, dreading the possibility of it actually opening. But it didn’t. The room was remarkably empty, and it looked as though Dean himself hadn’t been in there since returning to the bunker. His bag wasn’t in the room and all the permanent fixtures remained untouched. Cas sighed with relief and hurried inside, again forgetting in which drawer the tapes actually belonged. Flustered, he opened all of them until he found the right one. He hoped Dean hadn’t had some kind of order to his tapes the way he seemed to with the rest of his belongings. Cas noted that none of his books or the tapes left out on his desk had any kind of organisation, alphabetical or otherwise. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t missing something. Dean often seemed to handle his property in a way that made sense to him and no one else. There was no time to fret over it now, however, so Cas tucked them in as neatly as he could with trembling fingers and pushed the drawer shut.

He had done it.

Castiel had returned the tapes without being seen. Were Dean to come in now, he could easily claim innocence and say he was simply retrieving the tapes for the first time. With the lie premeditated, Cas thought he may very well present it convincingly. It was a pure answer that would leave very little room for doubt. Dean was sure to dismiss it immediately and carry on without pause. Cas smiled to himself and turned to leave. There, on the floor with the corner just peeking out from under the bed, was the magazine. It was open to a random page, most likely having fallen that way when he had been in the throes of ecstasy. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Cas bent down and picked the magazine up and tried to straighten out the bent pages before tucking it back under Dean’s mattress where he had found it.

“What are you—?” Dean asked from the doorway, his voice trailing off when he saw what Castiel had in his hands.

Cas froze, the magazine cover looking up at them, the stupid naked man’s seductive smile teasing them both. He withdrew and set the magazine on the bed, cover side down. With his eyes averted to his feet in shame, he wrung his hands together in front of him, shuffling his feet nervously.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said quietly, “I didn’t mean to, I promise…”

“That… that, uh,” Dean cleared his throat.

Castiel peered up at him, his expression forlorn. He was burdened with the fear of what Dean would say or do. After all, he had completely violated Dean’s privacy and drawn attention to something Dean obviously hadn’t wanted to share.

“I found it by accident,” Cas explained quickly, “and I intended to put it right back, but I can’t deny I let my curiosity get the best of me. And I didn’t mean to… it just sort of… happened, Dean. I’m ashamed of myself. It was completely inappropriate of me, and I apologise for… doing that, here.”

Dean held up a hand to silence him, his brows furrowed in confusion. Cas instantly quieted. Dean sidled in a little closer, holding the towel tightly at his waist. Cas made sure to focus his attention solely on Dean’s face—he didn’t want to make the situation any worse than it already was.

“You jerked off to my porn?” Dean asked.

Cas hesitated. He hadn’t been prepared to lie about this. “I, erm, kind of…” he said.

“Kind of?”

“It was more the thought of, uh.” Cas coughed and tried again. “The thought of you… jerking off to the porn.”

The brief silence was deafening. Castiel’s heart was racing inside his chest, each beat pounding louder in his ears. He actually felt a little dizzy—unstable on his feet. He couldn’t trust his legs to keep him upright anymore, but he felt it would be inappropriate to sit down on Dean’s bed. Cas assumed it was probably best to avoid touching anything at all. Instinct told him to remain still like stone, as if in the hope that Dean would forget he was there entirely. It was irrational, but it felt safe, so Cas stood silently before Dean with his shoulders stiffly pushed back.

And then Dean slowly came in closer, a hesitant hand reaching out to touch Castiel’s waist. His touch was warm. Enticing. Electric. Castiel didn’t look down despite longing to. Instead, he locked eyes with Dean, his expression still contorted into a look of fear and apprehension.

“You like thinking about that?” Dean asked softly, his voice like a seductive purr.

“About wh…what?”  Cas stuttered.

“Me with my cock in my hand? Jerking off to gay porn?” Dean asked. His eyes glistened with misdeed.

Castiel gnawed on his bottom lip and offered a hesitant nod of his head. He worried there may be a trick to Dean’s question. There had to be a wrong answer, and he wasn’t sure if he was giving it. But then Dean’s other hand took hold of his waist as well, the towel around him dropping to the floor. Both of his hands slid down to the waistband of Cas’ jeans, his thumbs hooking into the belt loops. Dean pulled him in closer hips first.

“Do you like to fuck yourself when you think of me? Do you touch your hard cock and imagine me making you come?” Dean continued, now moving to kiss at Castiel’s neck. His breath was hot against his skin. Cas shivered.

Cas couldn’t speak. All words had escaped him. He nodded again, this time more eagerly, and his breath hitched at the feeling of Dean’s lips at his neck. Dean kept trailing kisses over his skin, kissing and sucking at his throat and his jawline. Castiel couldn’t believe this was happening. He was sure this was a dream—a figment of his ever-growing imagination. His fingers trailed up Dean’s body, starting at his stomach and moving over his chest. His touch paused at Dean’s pecs, feeling the muscle there.

“Do you think about fucking me raw, Cas? Fucking me so hard I forget my own name?” Dean breathed, biting gently below Castiel’s ear.

Cas moaned, despite himself. Despite all his restraint. Despite his belief that none of this was real. His head tilted back, giving Dean more room to bite and lick at his neck. The hunter’s hands slipped into Cas’ waistband, touching at the material of his boxers teasingly. Cas finally allowed himself to touch Dean fully. His hands slid down Dean’s back to his ass, grazing the naked skin of each cheek.

“Look at me,” Dean urged, growling quietly.

Castiel obeyed and looked at him, his eyes clearly hungry for Dean. He did want to fuck Dean raw. To fuck him so hard he forgot his own name. He wanted to make Dean scream in ecstasy, to curse louder and louder with every thrust into him. Castiel wanted to make Dean feel something he hadn’t ever felt before.

 He wanted to take Dean in a way nobody else had.

Dean kissed him then. He took Cas’ bottom lip between his and kissed firmly and passionately. And Cas simply melted into it. He cupped Dean’s ass and pulled him in close, their hipbones brushing together. Dean gripped the front of Cas’ shirt, tugging at the material as if urging the buttons to undo themselves. Dean’s tongue traced his lip, longing to taste him. Castiel obliged him, parting his lips slightly.

He felt breathless.

But in the best way possible.

His erection ached, already prodding hard against Dean through his jeans. But Dean’s naked cock was a firm presence at Castiel’s thigh. Cas reached down and took it into his hand, stroking the entire length of it gently. Dean groaned, his knees almost immediately buckling. Their lips parted for a moment and Cas took to kissing Dean’s neck instead, eliciting yet another moan from the hunter.

Dean was his.

He slid his thumb through the slit of Dean’s cock before stroking back down to the base, all the while angling him towards the bed. Dean easily allowed Castiel to guide him and lowered himself onto the mattress without pause. He was sitting exactly where Cas had pleasured himself a few hours before. Just thinking about it made Castiel’s cock twinge, and he growled quietly, cursing Dean’s name under his breath.

Castiel dropped to his knees, his erection uncomfortable in the confinement of his jeans. He ran his hands across Dean’s inner thighs, teasing him. Dean leaned back with his hands pressed firmly against the bed, his knuckles fisting the blankets beneath him. Dean’s erection, the head slick with pre-come, stood long and firm. Cas took a moment to appraise it, his bottom lip between his teeth. His heart was hammering. This was exactly as he had imagined: Dean bare and vulnerable and hungry for him. Cas finally licked up the underside of Dean’s cock, starting at the base, and then he flicked the tip with his tongue. Dean threw his head back, his breath coming loud and heavy. Clutching Dean’s hips, Cas took the head of Dean’s erection into his mouth and sucked. It was gentle and teasing at first, his tongue circling it wetly.

“Fuck me… f…fuck,” Dean cursed, biting at his lip.

 Castiel peered up at him through his eyelashes and then sucked further down, still taking it slow. His fingers explored the skin of Dean’s inner thighs, tracing them delicately before gently cupping Dean’s balls in one palm. Dean startled, jostling back a little, but then quickly settled and laid back. His hands gripped the blankets, knotting the material in his fists as Cas sucked harder and bobbed his head faster, only pausing on occasion for air. The next time Cas withdrew, licking his lips, Dean sat up and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

“Take it off,” Dean breathed, getting impatient with the buttons.

Castiel reached up and helped undo them, Dean’s hands flustered and clumsy with the top few as he pulled Cas in closer to kiss him. Cas heatedly kissed him back, swiftly finishing the bottom set of buttons and moving down to the zipper of his jeans.

“I want to feel you,” Dean groaned against his lips, “fucking _all_ of you, understand?”

“All of me?” Cas repeated. He was overwhelmed by the idea.

“All of you,” Dean confirmed. He finally pulled Castiel’s shirt off, grinning triumphantly as he tossed it aside. His hands grazed his arms before sliding seamlessly to the back of Castiel’s neck. Cas straightened up, standing taller on his knees so he was more in level with Dean. And he kissed him. Gentle this time—allowing himself a moment to savour it. He wanted a few seconds to really feel the soft warmth of Dean’s lips; to taste his essence; to have the graze of Dean’s stubble against his chin; to have the smell of Dean’s cologne envelop him so completely.

 Cas wanted time to slow down so they could stay there awhile, together as they were before anything had the chance to change.

Dean deepened the kiss, pulling Cas in closer all the while with his fingers knotting into his hair. Castiel moaned—the sound like a soft, vulnerable quiver—and repeated, “All of me,” this time with absolute conviction. He wanted Dean to feel every inch of him; to possess it and claim every part with his lips. And he wanted to take Dean; to hold and caress him entirely, and to mark his skin with his teeth. Cas stood upright and placed his palm on Dean’s chest, pushing him flat on the bed before straddling his hips. His belt hung open around his jeans and Dean hooked one finger through the buckle and pulled it loose—tossing it away with the abandoned shirt.

“You can feel all of me if I can feel all of you,” Castiel said, taking Dean’s wrists into both hands and holding them back behind Dean’s hands.

 Dean gazed up at him feverishly, his green eyes dazed by lust and his pupils dilated. He smiled. That same daring, flirtatious grin he had been casting over the table at breakfast each morning. That smile that had Castiel’s imagination running rampant and wishing like crazy that it actually meant something—which it apparently did. He leaned down and took that smile between his lips and claimed rights to it, his teeth very barely biting Dean’s bottom lip. Instinctively, he ground down on Dean’s hips, his jeans steadily falling down without a belt. The hunter’s hard cock was prodding Cas’ ass through his exposed boxers, making the former angel gasp and grind down harder.

“Fucking hell,” Dean hissed and bit his lip, “I want you. I want you fucking now, Cas. Right fucking now.”

Dean’s wrists fought against Castiel’s grip, wanting to undress him entirely, but Cas wouldn’t let him—not yet. He liked this: Dean beneath him, begging for him and eager to give anything.

And Cas was desperate to take everything.

Castiel kissed down Dean’s chest, his arms hovering over Dean’s head and keeping the hunter’s hands pinned to the bed. Not remembering where he had seen it before, Cas briefly thought that he would have to find handcuffs or a substitute for them in future—assuming there even was a future between them. He snarled excitedly at the thought, though he still had no idea where it came from. He nipped and kissed at Dean’s skin, taking his nipple between his lips and sucking at it—flicking it with the tip of his tongue. He swore he felt it stiffen, and he heard the quiet and desperate gasps of Dean wanting more. And Cas decided to give it to him. He moved to the second nipple, repeating the same motions, much to Dean’s pleasure. Dean continued to grind up against him, his cock continually rubbing Castiel’s still clothed ass, seemingly prodding near the asshole on its own accord. Castiel allowed it, but still refused to give in to desire so soon—he still wanted to take his time.

“Turn over,” Castiel ordered, lifting himself up onto his knees either side of Dean and releasing his wrists so he could move.

Dean grinned, his chest heaving breathlessly, and he did as he was told: turning over and leaning on his elbows with his back arched. Dean’s bare ass rose higher into the air, inviting Castiel to do with it whatever he willed. Cas started by kissing each naked cheek, his soft hands cupping them, parting them slightly. Then he withdrew to tug off his jeans and boxers, finally freeing his erection from the confining materials. Cas moved in closer, the head of his cock nudging the crack of Dean’s ass, and he leaned over him, instructing Dean to take his outstretched fingers into his mouth and to suck.

Again, Dean was compliant, taking the two fingers between his lips and sucking on them, his mouth hot and slick. After a few moments of this, Cas pulled his hand back and teasingly circled the rim of Dean’s asshole with his wet index finger. The hunter pushed back towards him, impatient to feel him. Castiel carefully pushed his finger in, going slow and kissing the small of Dean’s back at the same time. Dean tensed and Cas felt him tighten around his finger. He paused, allowing Dean some time to adjust before adding the second finger. Dean groaned, again forcing his ass back further so Castiel’s fingers pressed deeper into him. Cas moved them gradually, pushing in and pulling out little by little and spreading his fingers apart slightly to stretch him.

Finally—as Dean begged for him—Cas withdrew his hand and slicked his own cock with spit, cursing under his breath at the sensation of his palm encasing his erection and stroking it. He guided the head of his throbbing cock to Dean’s ass and allowed the hunter to envelop him. Dean was so tight. So fucking tight and warm and glorious. This was more than what his newly-human urges had ever prepared him for.

“Holy fuck,” Cas breathed, his voice guttural and lost in the moment.

Dean arched his back more, seemingly shaking on his forearms with his head drooping forward. “Holy fuck,” Dean agreed, trying to peer back at Cas. “Fuck me raw,” he urged Castiel, “I want you to fuck me so fucking raw.”

“I’ll fuck you till you can’t remember your name,” Cas purred, thrusting deep into him.

“Fuck me till I’m screaming _your_ name,” Dean demanded.

Castiel thrust into him again. And again. And again. And again. Dean was still so tight; the sensation of him rocking Castiel’s mind into a kind of oblivion—the most glorious kind there could possibly be. In many ways, he felt almost outside of himself—all the shivers of bliss inside his core but the mania of it all drawing him to the outside. It was as though his skin was alight with divine fire; the heat of his skin flush against the heat of Dean’s until he couldn’t actually distinguish the difference anymore.

It was _their_ heat.

His hands held Dean’s hips, steadying them both as he pounded recklessly into him. Dean threw his head back, endlessly cursing aloud, each vulgar word louder than the last and tainted more in the colour of desire. Dean’s words longed for him, each breath of Castiel’s name said with urgency and lust. As Dean begged for more and more, Castiel gave it to him.

Cas felt the tremors of carnal instinct overthrow him, his grip on Dean’s body tightening with no plan to ever let go. When he could, he kissed Dean wherever he could reach: his back, his sides, between his shoulders—wanting to show him in every way he could that he wanted him more than he had ever wanted anything. As he thrust into Dean again, hitting something powerful and splendid deep inside him, Dean screamed.

“K…keep going!” He ordered. He was almost too much of a quaking mess to get the words out, “oh…m...my fuck…”

Castiel did as Dean commanded, hitting that same spot over and over again until Dean was fiercely stroking himself and literally screaming Castiel’s name—almost as if he really had forgotten his own in the throes of ecstasy. Cas could feel a tightness inside him, like a coil ready to spring, and each thrust began to lose its sense of conviction as he lost pace. His rhythm stuttered, and his hands clawed at Dean’s hips, aware he was still holding on but still feeling as if he was falling away. The world was without an epicentre; it was just him and Dean, the two of them becoming one. The sensation within his stomach and testicles continued to tighten, the coil shrinking in on itself before releasing. He thought of it as his own personal earthquake—there was no stability to his being as he came inside Dean, his cock pulsing and entire body collapsing in wicked waves.

 He too forgot his own name.

Though he remembered Dean’s; clear as day. And he said it. The one simple word like the most tremendous thing that had ever—and will ever—pass his lips.

His spine straightened, each of his muscles tensing as he climaxed. His lips parted, frozen in an inaudible gasp, and his eyes fluttered shut. But he could still feel Dean. He could feel his hands on Dean’s skin, he could feel the bone beneath it, and he could feel the warmth of Dean’s insides still somehow miraculously tight around him. As he came down from his high, the orgasm fading into a fond memory, it was the feeling of Dean that brought him back to Earth. He opened his eyes again and leaned back on his haunches. His still twinging cock withdrew from Dean.

The hunter collapsed onto the bed stomach first before turning to his side and gazing at Castiel. Cas met his eyes, his own blue orbs most certainly littered with feelings that were without words. He felt unsteady—his legs bound to cripple beneath him were he to stand and his elbows sure to bend were he to lean on them. Instead of attempting either one, he crawled in a daze further up the bed and laid down beside Dean. His lips were dry, his own heavy and heated breaths stripping them of moisture—his tongue, too, suddenly felt thick and dry inside his mouth. He wanted to say something. Anything. Yet he said nothing at all. Dean smiled sheepishly at him, his cheeks suddenly flushing pink as he reached up and draped his arm over Castiel.

“Who would have thought, huh?” Dean said finally, swallowing hard.

Cas was hesitant to respond. Thinking had never been the problem—unless thinking too much counted for anything. Because he had thought about this often; probably more than he would ever care to admit. Though truthfully he had never expected his illicit daydreams to come to life. He had—for the most part—come to terms with the fact that he and Dean were, and always would be, an impossibility. He had repeatedly forced himself to accept that all those flirtatious grins and the frequent touch of Dean’s roaming hands had been nothing more than an illusion; a lie he fed himself to fuel a hope that should have long ago died.

Yet here they were: naked together with Dean’s arm circling his waist, his fingers tracing the contours of his back, with the marks of each other’s lips on their bodies.

Castiel tentatively reached up and brushed his thumb across a bruise on Dean’s neck. Somehow, despite all the evidence, that one little bruise was the only thing that convinced him it was all real.

“Did you ever think about it? Us?” Cas asked gently.

Dean laughed softly, his green eyes igniting. “Well, yeah… I mean, I never thought we’d actually happen, you know? It was kind of like an unrealistic fantasy.”

“A fantasy?”

“Yeah. Has been for a while, to tell you the truth,” Dean admitted. “Let’s just say I hadn’t found the need for that porno for a while… turns out you’re all the fantasy I need, Cas.”

“But you’ve never…” Castiel paused, his brow furrowing.

He tried to recall ever seeing Dean with a man before in any way that would even suggest that he felt any attraction toward the same sex. He remembered Dean with his arm around various women in the past—often sitting across from them at bars with that same ridiculously charming grin on his face. There had been more than one occasion where Cas had settled himself into the back seat of the Impala only to find a bra or a pair of women’s lacy underwear on the floor, and he had awkwardly kicked them aside with his foot and pretended to have never seen it. Dean had never brought girls—or anyone for that matter—back with him to the bunker, but he most certainly never had any issue bringing them back to his hotel room. Each time he returned from a late night out drinking with an attractive woman on his arm, Sam had wordlessly gathered his laptop and the keys to the Impala before leading Castiel outside with him, the two of them finding somewhere quiet to sit and do nothing for an hour or two—Cas feeling uncomfortable and a tad envious all the while.

The point was, Castiel had never seen Dean so much as flirt with a man before. And sometimes Cas did misunderstand or entirely miss these cues or implications, but he didn’t think he had ever been _that_ oblivious. Surely he would have noticed. Surely Sam would have said something.

“Have you ever…?” Castiel tried again. He sighed, unable to put the question into words.

“Fucked a guy?” Dean supplied for him. He seemed to think about it for a second before correcting himself. “Or been fucked by a guy?”

“Yes, exactly,” Cas confirmed, relieved that Dean understood.

Dean gestured for Cas to come closer. Cas obliged, shuffling toward Dean so his arm was wrapped around him rather than draped. Dean slipped one of his legs between Castiel’s—tying them to one another.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “A few times. I just… look, my Dad had some old-fashioned ideas. You know, like a comment here and a snide look there. I don’t think he cared that much. I mean, it wasn’t really his business you know? But I was his son. I guess that made it different somehow. I _was_ his business.”

“So you weren’t allowed?” Cas asked.

“Well, I never exactly asked for permission,” Dean laughed, but it was completely void of humour. “I just never said anything about it. Seemed better to stay quiet rather than test the waters.”

“And Sam?”

“He doesn’t know,” Dean confirmed, “Or at least I think he doesn’t. Maybe he’s picked up on it, or at least suspected it. He might be used to the same code of silence.”

“But you never asked him? Or told him?” Castiel didn’t understand. Sam and Dean were brothers, and after all this time together on the road, sharing cheap hotel rooms and spending days at a time in the Impala together, surely they knew everything there was to know about each other.

“It never came up,” Dean shrugged.

Castiel noticed Dean noticeably stiffen. His eyes flitted to the wall, avoiding Castiel’s piercing gaze. This wasn’t a truth that just hadn’t had time or reason or urgency to come up. It was something Dean seemed afraid and almost entirely unwilling to share.

“You could tell him,” Cas suggested.

“I could,” Dean conceded. But there was no commitment to his words. He had no immediate plans to actually do it. And Castiel _still_ couldn’t understand.

“Are you afraid to tell him about your attraction to men… or just about your attraction to me?”

Cas bit his lip, his own stare fading over Dean to the wall behind him. There he saw the Purgatory blade propped up amidst Dean’s array of weapons. And he thought how he had disappointed Dean more than once. Cas recalled lying to the Winchesters and working with Crowley—of all people. He remembered opening Purgatory despite their numerous warnings—and Dean’s desperate pleading—not to. Cas regretted being the cause of so much death and destruction, killing dozens on Earth and hundreds in Heaven before unleashing the Leviathan on the Earth. And then, despite his good intentions, he forced himself to picture the betrayed expression on Dean’s face after he realised Cas had willingly left him alone in Purgatory with all of Eve’s abominations.

Maybe Castiel did understand after all.

“Let’s be honest, there’s a _big_ difference between me sleeping with random guys and me sleeping with _you_ ,” Dean explained. His body seemed to withdraw from Cas a little. Though the shift was very slight, Cas definitely felt colder.

“Is there?” Cas sounded empty, even to his own ears.

“Isn’t there?” Dean asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. “You are—were—an angel for one thing—”

“That didn’t seem to be an issue with Anna,” Cas interjected, his voice harsher than he had originally intended.

Dean flinched. “Okay… yeah. You’ve got me there,” he admitted. He withdrew just that little bit further. “But that’s still different, Cas. That was Anna and this is… this is _you_.”

Cas turned to his other side with his back facing Dean. The hunter’s arm was now so loose around him that Cas could move seamlessly. And even when he settled, his back cold and bare, Dean didn’t tighten his hold. Castiel closed his eyes, shifting awkwardly with the pillow suddenly feeling like a brick beneath his head. He felt ridiculous with his clothes in a messy pile on the floor, his vulnerable body like a vessel he simply couldn’t escape from.

What he would do just to have his wings now.

“I’m really fucking this up, aren’t I?” Dean sighed. “What I mean is, you’ve been a part of our lives for years, Cas. A real big, important part. It feels like there’s a lot here to lose if it goes wrong. And I am man enough to admit that with me, it _always_ goes wrong. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my relationships don’t exactly stick long.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean any relationship that became more than a fling has never ended well. And you and me? We’re both chaotic. Doesn’t exactly seem promising, does it?”

Castiel had to admit Dean had a valid point. They weren’t exactly a conventional pair, and Castiel was far more chaotic than most. He had hundreds, maybe even thousands of angels on his back seeking to claim his head for bounty. He was a target for strong biblical creations that could—and would—kill him and anyone that tried to stop them without hesitation. Castiel could never be anything more than a fleeting moment in Dean’s life—and perhaps this was it. Perhaps by tomorrow, everything they had would be gone.

Cas wasn’t prepared for them—no matter how fleeting—to be over just yet.

“So we don’t tell Sam?” He suggested.

“Are you okay with that?” Dean didn’t sound convinced.

“Of course,” Cas said. His hand was gripping the edge of the bed tightly, squeezing the seam of the mattress until his knuckles turned white. He was afraid that he had done too much wrong and caused too much pain to be with Dean the way he wanted to. And he feared that maybe Dean was thinking it too.

Dean shuffled closer to him, his warm chest pressed against Cas’ cold back. His arm tightened around his waist—truly holding him there. Dean’s breath tickled at the back of Cas’ neck, his soft lips grazing against his skin without quite kissing him. Castiel shivered, his vacant body suddenly enveloped in warmth and comfort, and he leaned needily into Dean. He found that the firm pillow felt a whole lot softer when Dean’s head was rested on it too.

“Okay,” Dean said, his voice still lacking conviction. But then he sealed the word in a promise with a kiss to Castiel’s neck.

Where Dean’s lips touched, Castiel’s skin burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Well... it went there haha. Did you think this was a long time coming? :P I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know what you thought in the comments! Are you eager for the next chapter?!


	7. Apron

Dean was gone when Cas woke up. Sitting up, Dean’s blanket fell away from him, leaving him bare—though he certainly didn’t recall falling asleep with it atop him in the first place. He rubbed his eyes and forced back a yawn as he stood, flinching when his feet touched the cold tiles.

 Distantly, he could hear music.

 It was impossible to recognise the song from here, though Cas doubted he would recall the name even if it happened to be playing right in his ear. He didn’t have the memory for such things. Whereas Dean could faultlessly name a tune and the artist from the opening riff alone. It was another talent of Dean’s that Cas had been surprised to discover—and had greatly admired ever since. He felt there was something truly wonderful about it.

It was something Dean possessed that Cas didn’t.

Dean had such a divine love for something that Cas was only just beginning to understand. It had taken him a few years, but Castiel finally recognised the beauty that Dean had seen—or rather heard—all along. Of course he couldn’t be sure, since he couldn’t exactly ask, but he suspected that music—the very thing next to the Impala and pie that Dean held most dear—was purely human creation.

God had no part in it.

Perhaps even He had never planned for something so pure to exist through the hands and vocal cords of ‘lesser’ creatures. Humanity had possibly defied him and made something beautiful from the rubble of his failures.

And Dean’s love for it had surely become Castiel’s too. He was suddenly so grateful that the hunter had ever wished to share it with him. Cas wasn’t entirely sure if it was his years on Earth, Dean’s influence, or his newfound mortality that had made all the difference, but he truly felt he had been granted a gift.

After gathering his clothes from the floor and dressing, he followed the sound. It grew louder as he traversed the halls, leading him towards the kitchen with its heavy bass. Then, with the doorway to the kitchen in sight, he could hear Dean singing along to the lyrics. Castiel smiled and looked sheepishly at the ground, each step laced with nervous tingles. He had to concentrate on walking, one foot after the other, because it was suddenly as if they wanted to run forward on their own accord.

But a part of him simultaneously thought he ought to retreat. The music lured him in, but the second voice singing elatedly along somehow suggested a danger he should probably stay away from.

He and Dean had crossed a line.

Actually, they had completely obliterated the line—and it could never be redrawn.

 There was no rewriting the past and no pretending it never happened. They had explored each other to the very core; traced each and every line of one another and encased the memory permanently in each and every corner of their minds. At least Castiel couldn’t go back to the way they were. He didn’t think it were possible. Whether Dean agreed was another matter entirely, and Cas wasn’t quite prepared to discuss it with him. They had decided to keep _them_ secret from Sam, but what if that secret, in the few hours between falling asleep and waking, had vanished?

What if Dean _had_ erased it?

He was still fretting over it when his still moving feet—seemingly magnetised to the kitchen—finally stopped in the doorway. Dean had his back to him, wearing only boxers and an apron around his front, with the handle of a pan held in one hand and a spatula in the other. The hunter moved effortlessly, swaying from one foot to the other, using the end of the spatula as a makeshift microphone. He continued to sing, unaware of Castiel’s presence. Cas’ smile grew, the apples of his cheeks tinted pink with a sensation he could describe but not name. It was a tempest swelling inside his chest—his heart thrumming like the beat had been caught by the inescapable wind. It was the electric surge of lightning coursing from his toes, up his spine, to the back of his neck; the kind that left his skin flush and knees weak. And it was the dark thunderous sky that crept into the depths of his eyes and made his pupils dilate.

It all sounded terrifying. Perilous. And maybe this feeling—the one he desperately wanted to define—was exactly that. Yet, he _wasn’t_ afraid. Castiel was simply swept away by the storm—not entrapped by it.

He _wanted_ to be there.

And the sensation refused to dispel; not that he wished for it to go.

Dean lifted up the pan and turned to empty the contents onto two empty plates. He froze when he saw Cas standing there still with that dumb smile on his face. Dean set the pan down on the counter and scurried to turn off the stereo. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, pausing and rewinding and replaying before finally hitting stop. The kitchen fell into silence. Dean turned and looked at him, reaching round to his back and struggling to untie the knot of his apron.

“You didn’t see anything,” Dean insisted, clearly embarrassed.

Castiel pushed himself off from the doorframe and somehow walked steadily up to him despite his knees feeling as though they were about to buckle at any given moment. He stopped in front of Dean and nodded his head to gesture to his apron.

“Allow me,” Cas said with an easy smile. He reached around Dean and carefully untied the apron, allowing his hands to grace the skin of Dean’s back once he was done. He peered up through his eyelashes at the hunter and realised Dean was watching him, his eyes intense and focused. Cas moved and lifted the top of the apron over Dean’s head, gathered the material into his arms, and half-heartedly folded it.

“When did you learn how to be so smooth?” Dean asked, grinning crookedly.

“What do you mean?” Cas blinked with confusion.

Dean chuckled and took the apron from Castiel’s hands. He tossed it onto the counter and laced his arms around Cas’ waist, pulling him in closer.

“You know what? It’s actually more of a turn on when you do it by accident,” Dean said.

“Do what by accident?” Cas tilted his head slightly to the side and puckered his lips a little, wracking his mind for answers. What had he done? Had he been trying to do something without quite realising what it was? How could he possibly know when and if he ever did it again in future?

“Don’t ever change,” was all Dean said, refusing to elaborate further. His eyes lit up in amusement, each crease of his smile growing as he looked at him.

Dean kissed him then, his lips soft and gentle. His hands rested at the dip of Cas’ lower back, and Cas, awestruck, automatically put his arms around Dean’s neck. He held Dean close, deepening the kiss—perhaps a little too eagerly as Dean’s back hit the kitchen counter with a clang of the stacked pots and pans tumbling over from the impact.

But they didn’t stop.

Dean’s hands slipped under Cas’ shirt and traced the skin of his stomach and chest. Castiel’s fingers tangled into Dean’s hair and fought for dominance of the kiss. And he quickly won. Dean easily submitted to him, a quiet groan of lust escaping his lips. Castiel withdrew and picked Dean up, placing him down on the counter and holding his thighs around him.

“Jesus,” Dean gasped. His eyes were wild and his hair was already extremely dishevelled. He knotted his fingers into the collar of Cas’ shirt and pulled him forward. “How are you better at this than I am?”

“I’m not,” Cas breathed though he didn’t actually understand what Dean meant by _‘this’_.

“I’d beg to differ,” Dean smirked. His thighs tightened around Castiel. Impatiently, he pulled Cas’ shirt off and actually ripped a hole in one of the seams. He dropped the torn shirt to the floor and fumbled with Castiel’s belt. “Don’t even bother getting dressed,” Dean said, tugging the belt free, “I want you all the fucking time.”

Castiel shivered and his skin became littered with goose bumps. The hairs on his arms stood on end. His face grew hot. Nothing thrilled him more than the thought of Dean wanting him so badly. He imagined them in bed together, their bodies only barely touching before they inevitably curled into one another. He imagined them side by side on the couch watching their small television—as they so often did—with their hands unable to resist the temptation to touch, Castiel’s thighs eventually straddling Dean’s hips. And he imagined them alone together on a long drive, the call of the backseat too strong to ignore, making them stop at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere in a passionate heat.

Cas wanted to take Dean anywhere and everywhere; to kiss him wherever and whenever; and to love him anyplace and anytime.

And Dean wanted that too.

Cas trailed his kisses across Dean’s jaw to his neck, sucking and biting below his ear—taking extra care to darken the bruises he had left behind from the previous night. Dean’s ankles hooked around Cas’ legs, forcing him in as close as the kitchen counter would actually allow. The pots and pans at Dean’s back rattled and clanged. Cas slipped his hand into the waistband of Dean’s boxers and the hunter trembled at his touch. His boxers were already a little wet with pre-come, his cock throbbing and hard. Cas licked his lips, stroking Dean hard and fast and raw. His passion burned furious and untethered. He wanted to pleasure Dean and to make him collapse in desire. Dean’s legs shook. He was unsteady resting back on his arms, his elbows weakening more and more as his hips involuntarily thrust upwards. Dean thrust deeper into Cas’ hand, unable to contain himself. Castiel bit and sucked at Dean’s hard nipples, his own erection already aching and swelling like he was about to come. Just to see Dean writhing like that, and to hear his grunts and moans of sex driven devotion was enough to drive Cas absolutely wild.

Dean finally laid back, unable to support himself anymore. A few of the pots and pans fell to the floor around Cas’ feet with a loud collection of bangs. Dean’s hands fumbled in a desperate search for something to hold onto, one hand hitting the stereo. Music blared out from the speakers, but Dean’s groaning of Castiel’s name could still be heard over it, his voice growing louder and louder as he approached climax. Cas found his lips again and claimed them as his own, kissing him hungrily with all the restraint being swept out from under him.

The coil was tightening. His heart was racing. All he could feel was the heat of Dean’s body and the stiff ridge of Dean’s cock in his hand. All he could taste was the sweet purity of Dean’s lips and tongue. Dean’s elbow hit the stereo and the tape jammed, causing the song to skip. Dean cursed.

“How are you doing that?!” He cried, moaning again.

“I want you to come, Dean,” Cas said huskily. He gripped the material of Dean’s boxers and pulled to free Dean’s slick erection. He slid his thumb through the slit, massaged the head, and then resumed stroking the entire length of it. He gently bit Dean’s bottom lip and pulled it between his teeth.

Dean whimpered, coming undone for Castiel.

Castiel seized Dean’s lips as the hunter came, kissing the orgasmic groan that exuded from him. He continued to stroke him, Dean’s hot seed slick on his palm and sticky where it had landed low on his stomach. That coil tightened further still. As Dean’s thighs again squeezed around him, Cas felt it about to release. He didn’t even have time to unzip his jeans as he came, his hips grinding against the counter as the orgasm washed over him. Dean held his arms, keeping him close as Cas’ head tilted back. And then Dean sat up and kissed at Cas’ throat, his tongue darting out to lick at his skin. Cas grunted, finally falling still as he came down from his high.

“Did you just come in your jeans?” Dean breathed, smirking.

“Yes,” Cas gasped. He placed his hands on Dean’s thighs to steady himself.

“I didn’t even have to touch you,” Dean said, sounding extremely pleased with himself. He kissed Castiel’s stunned lips. “You better believe I’m gonna make you come like that again.”

Cas held Dean’s hips and helped ease him off the counter. They stood together and looked at the mess they had somehow made in the kitchen: cooking utensils spread across the counter and all over the floor. The stereo had actually knocked completely over with the song still jamming.

“Breakfast is probably cold,” Cas mumbled. He still felt dizzy and out of breath. His underwear and jeans were extremely uncomfortable and he wanted nothing more than to get out of them.

“Allow me,” Dean said, recognising the discomfort in Castiel’s expression. He effortlessly unzipped Cas’ jeans and pulled them down. Stunned, Cas lifted one foot after the other to get them off completely. The jeans were then swiftly followed by his underwear. Then they were once again naked together. “I’m learning,” Dean grinned, winking cheekily at him. He kissed at the corner of Cas’ mouth before stepping away and picking up both plates of cold food and carrying them to the table. “Care to join me?” Dean asked.

Castiel smiled and followed him. “Of course,” he said.

They left the mess untouched in the kitchen; their clothes scattered amongst the pots and pans.

Like Dean had said: _Don’t even bother getting dressed._

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel sat upright. His brow was slick with sweat, but his naked body was cold. He flexed his icy fingers and hoped that the tingling sensation would leave them. Instead, the tremors only seemed to seep further in and spread down to his toes. As it did, he felt a tightness in his chest that refused to alleviate despite each heavy breath dragged into his lungs. Cas licked at his lips and tasted the salt of his own sweat, but his tongue was bone dry, his mouth seemingly dying of thirst. The dark encasement of Dean’s room suffocated him.

He felt like he was dying.

He knew deep down that it wasn’t true—he could rationalise and remind himself that he had felt this way many times before and he had always survived it. He could tell himself that nobody ever died from this, and that this dread inside him was nothing more than a harmless trick of his mind.

And he had told himself each and every time he had woken this way.

And he hadn’t believed it each and every time.

He searched for the shadow of Dean in the dark. He couldn’t see him, but he could hear his shallow breathing as he slept beside him. Castiel knew he ought to feel relieved that he wasn’t alone—that this fear of isolation and abandonment could be dispelled by Dean’s presence—but he didn’t. Instead, he felt the looming threat that awaited him. He thought horridly of Dean’s eventual rejection. Castiel couldn’t thwart the belief that Dean would ultimately abandon him—and that he would deserve it. After all, he had known for a long time that his mistakes were truly unforgivable. He had known that what he had done could never be so easily dismissed. And Dean surely knew it too.

Cas slowly got out of bed and ventured out into the hallway, unsure as to whether he could truly trust his legs to keep him upright this time. He tread carefully, trying not to wake Dean as he left, and kept the door slightly ajar behind him. Even in the dark, he could sense the narrow hall and the exact way it shrunk inward the further he went.

Like an endless, cavernous tomb in which to bury himself.

He always hated walking the halls at night. He hated the way his breath felt trapped inside his lungs; like the air had frozen solid. He felt heavy too. It started at his chest and weighed him down. He sensed that the weight would send his feet sinking into the earth if he stood still for just a few seconds too long.

Again, it was a ridiculous notion he knew rationality could immediately dismiss. Yet there it remained. And it nagged and screamed and tormented him for hours at a time, insisting that the trap was there and he had merely escaped it the last time. It would be safer to stay in bed in the warm confines of the blankets. But he didn’t want to wake Dean. He didn’t want to alert Dean to the madness rattling inside his head. It sounded insane to his own ears, let alone to someone else’s.

How could he even begin to explain this?

In what world would these irrational fears make any sense when the reason behind them still eluded him?

Castiel kept walking to the kitchen, despite all the urges telling him to turn back. The mess from that morning was still there. But even the memory of that wasn’t enough to free him from the very thing that made him want to cry. What was that? What was this ungodly thing that came to steal everything good from him? Every happy memory and every ounce of newfound hope? Each time he felt the sense of belonging, this thing came, usually when he was alone and unable to sleep at night, and snatched it all away.

Cas didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong _anywhere_.

Fighting the burning in his eyes, Cas gathered up the dirty clothes and took them to the laundry. After filling a load, he went back to the kitchen and quietly picked up the pots and pans and put them back in their rightful place. Then he wiped down the counters, took out the trash, rearranged the fridge and pantry, wiped the countertops again, and then finally mopped the floors. He was running out of things to do. Things to distract himself with. He was waiting with bated breath for the washing to be done so he could grant himself the chore of hanging the clothes up to dry—purposely choosing to ignore the dryer. But that task would only take so long. The bathroom was mostly clean already, but he could clean it again if it came to it. But he wanted something that could actually captivate his attention. Anything at all.

Cas hung up the washing and then started scrubbing the shower. The tears still threatened to spill. And he didn’t know why.

 He just wanted to know _why_.

 If he understood the reason, then he could at the very least try to justify it. If there was a cause to this ache in his chest and to the repetitive hateful thoughts pounding inside his head, then he could rightly say that he was okay. That it was yet another human thing he had yet to fully comprehend.

When the thing that stole the light of his world did it for the sake of banishing him to the dark… that was when he grew truly afraid.

“Cas?”

Cas turned around and saw Dean standing in the doorway. The hunter blinked sleepily at him, his eyes mostly unfocused and his mouth sat partially slack as though he had only just woken up. Cas straightened up and wrung his gloved hands together. For some reason he felt like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“What are you doing up?” Dean asked with a yawn.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Cas said gently. He offered a casual shrug, but his shoulders felt too heavy and instead he simply shrunk in on himself. His eyes were still burning. Glancing in the bathroom mirror he saw, with horror, that they were rimmed red with tears. His skin looked sallow. His pupils remained small and unchanging—like his eyes were lifeless.

Dean frowned. “You okay?”

“Of course,” Cas nodded. But then he started to cry. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Cas…” Dean whispered. The hunter stepped into the room and easily took Castiel into his arms, holding him protectively to his chest and rubbing his back as he cried.

Dean didn’t ask questions. He somehow knew that Cas couldn’t answer them. Cas didn’t know what was wrong. He had been asking himself the same questions. Instead, Dean simply hugged him tightly and allowed Cas to nestle his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. The hunter said nothing about the tears and snot that stained the shoulder of his shirt. Instead, he ran his fingers through Cas’ hair and swayed him slightly on his feet.

And when Cas finally stopped crying, Dean wordlessly pulled the gloves from his hands, set them down on the edge of the sink, and guided him back to bed.

There Dean cradled Cas with his chest pressed to the former angel’s back. Dean encompassed Castiel so entirely and whispered empty words to him, trying to lull him to sleep. Cas listened to him, focusing ever so carefully on each and every word. And he tried to dispel the loneliness. He told himself that the arms around him were too solid and warm not to be real. And he told himself that those arms would not be around him if they didn’t mean it.

That Dean truly loved him.

He finally fell asleep… but right as he did, the thing that stole the light of his life came and left him with nothing more than the belief: You Don’t Belong _Anywhere_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, guys! I hope you liked this chapter: both the smutty and the emotional. Let me know what you thought in the comments and hopefully I'll have the next chapter up in time (though I do have a convention to go to in about a week, so we shall see.)


	8. Shower

Castiel pretended to still be asleep when Dean woke up. He ignored Dean’s gentle whisper of his name and made a point of breathing a little heavier to better feign a deep slumber. He assumed Dean believed it as the hunter eventually got up, carefully pulled the blanket more securely over Cas, and then left. Cas waited until he heard the quiet click of the door before sitting up. He just needed a moment. A moment to collect himself. To bury what last night had dug up. Dean didn’t deserve to be burdened with Castiel’s problems or his tears. Cas vowed never to cry in front of Dean like that ever again—he wanted to avoid the inevitable for as long as possible.

The ‘inevitable’ being that Dean would one day start to resent him. To secretly wish Cas wasn’t around. To truly regret having ever started this… relationship… to begin with.

Cas knew it was unavoidable. He was poison to those around him. But he kept trying to delay the truth for as long as he could because his greed made it impossible not to. He continued to take what he did not deserve because it made him feel good.

He simply felt better when Dean was there.

For a little while, he could forget everything and just be with the person he loved most.

Eventually, knowing he couldn’t hide away forever, Cas got out of bed and went to find Dean. He discovered the empty kitchen and checked the war room next, but it was also empty. It felt wrong. These big, open rooms were dense with abandonment. He felt the familiar sense of solitude and rejected it immediately. Cas went to the bathroom next and felt immediate relief when he could hear the spray of the shower through the door.

He wasn’t alone.

His madness hadn’t spiralled further into actual insanity. He shook his head at the thought—at the fact that he even had to consider the possibility. And he wondered if it were normal. Were these fears and dreadful thoughts to be expected of his newfound humanity? Or was this unusual? Cas couldn’t really be sure and he refused to ask.

He knocked timidly at the door and distantly heard Dean inviting him inside. Cas slipped through the door and shut it behind him, almost losing himself for a second inside the steam. Dean peered around the shower curtain, his hair lathered in shampoo, and he smiled awkwardly.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean said.

Castiel stepped closer so he could see Dean better through the vapour. Dean’s gaze was absolutely riddled with questions and concerns. Cas wanted to dispel them. Immediately.

“Morning,” Cas murmured. He offered a reassuring smile, but it felt half-hearted even with all his energy put into it.

“Care to join me?” Dean motioned Cas closer and opened the shower curtain wider.

Cas nodded and wordlessly stripped down. Dean stood waiting, never averting his gaze. Castiel stepped into the shower and Dean slid the curtain shut again, casting them into a dim light and a denser cloud of steam. The hot water burned at Castiel’s skin, but he didn’t complain. Between the two of them—both trying to fit into the relatively small space—the temperature was somehow bearable. Dean automatically placed his hands on Cas’ waist. The spray of the shower was now directly over him and washing the shampoo out of his hair. Cas smiled at him, more genuinely this time, and gently ran his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“Cas,” Dean mumbled and then cleared his throat.

“Hmm?” Cas hummed mindlessly. He caressed Dean’s cheek, grazing his skin lightly with his thumb.

“What happened last night?” Dean asked. He looked at his feet. The water ran down his face.

“You’ll get shampoo in your eyes,” Cas warned.

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“And?” Cas challenged.

 He placed his hands against Dean’s chest. Dean’s grip tightened protectively on his waist and he leaned in closer so their foreheads were pressed together. Cas couldn’t see his face anymore, so he instead watched as Dean’s legs began to shake.

“And you really scared me,” Dean admitted, “I’ve never…” He cleared his throat again. “I’ve never seen you like that before. I’ve never seen you cry.”

“Well, mortality can be a little overwhelming sometimes,” Cas shrugged dismissively, “it was a human thing. Just another one of those things I’m not used to yet.”

“So you’re saying it was nothing?” Dean asked in disbelief.

“Exactly. It was nothing.”

Dean opened his mouth to ask another question, so Cas quickly kissed him. It seemed like the easiest way to shut him up. He hoped the sudden motion would be enough to distract Dean for a while. And it seemed to work. Dean was still at first, his lips frozen and tense, but then he kissed back. It was gentle. Dean still seemed unwilling to commit to the physical display of affection. When they parted, Dean seemed to withdraw slightly. Castiel followed and kissed him again. And, again, Dean hesitated before giving in and kissing back.

“Cas—,” Dean tried.

“Don’t,” Cas interrupted. There was begging in his voice. A broken crack.

Dean sighed heavily and ran a hand roughly through his own hair, obviously debating with himself whether he ought to persist or not. Instinct seemed to be telling him to press Cas further, but his fear of upsetting Cas told him not to. When Cas kissed along Dean’s jawline and pressed a leg between his thighs, the decision had been made. Dean turned them around so Castiel’s back was pressed against the wet shower wall and he took to kissing down his body. Cas leaned his head back and his eyes fluttered shut. He focused on the feeling of Dean’s lips on his skin and the hot water that licked at his side. Dean’s hand slid down Cas’ thigh to the back of his knee and he hooked his leg up. Castiel thrust against his body.

Cas submitted to Dean immediately. For once, he wanted the hunter to be in control. Cas wanted to give into someone else’s sense of belonging. He needed to know for sure he was wanted.

How could he deny it if Dean asked for him to stay?

Castiel’s breathing hitched and he clawed desperately at Dean’s back. The two of them ground together—two solid bodies finding solace in the all-consuming proximity. Dean was embracing him in a way he never had before, though Cas couldn’t describe in what way it felt new. He thought there were only so many ways someone could touch another, but he was wrong.

Something about Dean’s touch—with all its heat and hunger and desire—was tainted with pain.

A desperation of another kind.

The kind that feared loss. As if Cas would disappear were he to let go.

As Dean knelt between his legs and took his erection into his mouth, Cas started to wonder if it were true. Perhaps the absence he felt inside would obliterate him completely once Dean parted from him. It was another of those irrational notions that he couldn’t help but dread.

But Dean made it possible to cast those anxieties away. To banish them for a little while.

Castiel gasped as Dean’s tongue circled the head of his cock. Obviously, Dean was good at this. Cas had heard plenty over the years to rightfully assume that Dean was no stranger to shower sex. It came with the territory. Dean was an extremely attractive and charming man. Who would even hesitate to fall to his every whim? Cas had only been intimate with him for the past couple days and he knew he would do near anything Dean asked of him. No idea was too stupid or reckless.

“I can take care of you, Cas,” Dean purred. He caressed Castiel’s cock in his hand. His lips traced the lines of Cas’ hip bones, causing his words to muffle against his skin. “I can make you feel so good. So fucking good.”

“You do,” Cas breathed. And he meant it in more ways than the illicit. Dean evoked more than an intense sexual craving. Dean made Castiel’s heart skip beats. He made his cheeks flush red with nerves and excitement. Somehow, when it came to Dean, the human emotions—as complex and overwhelming as they were—seemed worth it. He would challenge the odds and defy his angelic limitations to love Dean. And where love hadn’t immediately struck, a sense of change had.

Hester had been right when she had bellowed to Dean that: _“the very touch of you corrupts. When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!”_

There was no possible way to deny the truth of her words. But she hadn’t fully understood—there were things she would have never been able to comprehend.

Dean’s touch did corrupt. It burned. But it was a glorious fire that Cas willingly encased himself in. He wished those flames would never extinguish.

And he _was_ lost.

But he had always felt that way; deep down. Despite all the rules he followed and wars he waged in Heaven’s name, a part of Castiel never quite felt at peace. There were doubts that lingered dangerously in the back of his thoughts and in the deepest pit of his heart. It was an itch he had never been able to scratch. A battle between what was right and what was easy that he had been losing for millennia.

Until Dean.

Dean made it possible to feel lost in the purest way. A way in which he could decide for himself and live freely without corruption blinding him. Of course, it was terrifying. And of course, with all the power of free will, he had made mistakes—but those mistakes were not on Dean. It was Dean who was there to pick up the pieces.

Castiel was lost. There was nothing easy about it. But Dean made it feel right.

Dean stood upright to kiss him with his hands pressed against the wall on either side of him. Despite the warmth of the shower, Castiel shivered. He was trapped between Dean and the wall, and that excited him. Dean dominated him, turning him around so he was facing the wall. The hunter held Cas’ wrists and moved his hands up above his head, palms pressed flat against the tiles, and ordered him to keep them there. Castiel obeyed, automatically arching his back and grinding his ass against Dean. He felt the stiff prod of Dean’s erection and groaned impatiently.

But Dean made him wait.

Dean bit at his neck and kissed at the faint marks left by his teeth. His hands roamed freely over Cas’ body, reaching around him to stroke teasingly at his cock, always withdrawing whenever Castiel’s hands slipped from their place on the wall.

“What did I tell you?” Dean growled when Cas’ hands once again slipped.

“To keep my hands above my head,” Castiel answered timidly and bit his lip.

“Are you going to do as I say?” Dean asked. He purposely pulled away so their bodies were no longer touching.

Castiel whined, eager to turn around and pull Dean into him again, but he resisted the temptation and firmly placed his hands back above his head.  He rested his cheek against the wall. His body felt overheated by more than the steam.

“Yes,” he promised, “I’ll do anything. Everything.”

Dean seemed satisfied with that as he resumed kissing and licking at Cas’ skin, right below his ear. As he drew nearer, he put his hands over Castiel’s wrists and held them there, his hips thrusting forward and grinding against Cas’ ass. A soft gasp escaped Dean’s lips and the fine hairs on Castiel’s neck stood on end. His already weak knees buckled for a second. He could simply fall into Dean. The hunter made it that easy.

“I want to fuck you,” Dean purred.

Cas wanted to beg for him to do it, to absolutely scream for it, but he bit his tongue. Telling Dean to do anything would only result in him doing the exact opposite. He would make Cas wait even longer and leave him void of touch until he felt that the punishment was sufficient. Cas had to do as Dean said and submit to his every rule and command. He had to move when and where he was told. Struggling to stay still, Cas closed his eyes and focused on the touch of Dean’s hands and the sharp edges of his hips and the slight shift of his chest as he breathed.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Cas?” Dean asked and nipped at his earlobe.

Cas shivered again. “Yes,” he breathed. He wanted it desperately. Suddenly more than he had ever wanted anything else. The desire struck every cord inside him and owned his will. This hunger was stronger than he was.

It consumed him.

Dean’s grip tightened on his wrists as he pressed into him. Castiel was struck by the sensation. It was so completing. Dean filled him so entirely. He gasped and then his breath stuttered as Dean withdrew slightly from him before pressing in again. His hands nearly slipped from their position on the wall, but he suddenly needed them there not just because Dean commanded it, but also for stability. Dean’s hands slid around him with his palms pressed to Cas’ stomach, his skin calloused and warm and protective.

Castiel felt safest in Dean’s arms.

Dean thrust into him again, his breath hot and heavy against the back of Castiel’s neck, and his lips brushed against his skin. Cas shivered and leaned his forehead against the wall. With every thrust, Cas felt a rush of adrenaline and untethered lust. There wasn’t a world outside of where they were. Dean whispered into his ear, every word said in the throes of desire. But there was something so soft about them. Even with Cas submissive against the wall, succumbing to Dean’s every wish and command, Dean’s voice was nothing but loving and genuine. And Cas wanted to believe him. He wanted to hear the delicate ache of honest and raw need and have it resolve any and all doubts he still had. But something inside him wouldn’t let go.

“Harder, Dean,” Castiel begged.

He tilted his head down and water ran over his lips which he was sure would otherwise be dry. He tried to ignore the parched sensation in his mouth and the sudden numbness in his fingers.

Dean could make him forget.

Cas _needed_ to forget.

Dean stroked Castiel as he pushed harder and deeper into him and Cas leaned back into him, careful to keep his hands in place—which was more and more difficult the less he felt any control over them. He tried to convince himself it was nothing more than gravity keeping the blood from his fingers, but he knew the truth. This tingling sensation had been coming and going more and more over the past few weeks, often leaving his hands almost entirely useless. He couldn’t trust himself to carry anything fragile whenever his fingers became numb, and he usually buried his hands in his pockets to hide just how badly they were shaking. His bones often turned heavy too at the same time, like a sudden weight had been tied to either arm or leg without warning. And he still didn’t understand how it happened or why.

As a tightness spread throughout his chest and his muscles tensed, Cas urged Dean to keep going and to press harder and move faster and to take him as completely and passionately as possible. Dean was everything Cas had. Dean had stayed despite all Cas had done wrong; despite all the people Cas had hurt and killed, and all the times he had betrayed, disappointed or failed him. Dean was there for him, just as he was there for Dean. And he was sorry.

“Dean—,” Cas begged and groaned as Dean hit something glorious inside of him. His knees nearly buckled again, but this time Dean had to hold his hips to keep him from crumbling completely. The heat of Dean’s lips and the grasp of his strong hands came back into focus.

“I need you. I need you to take me away.” Cas meant it in every conceivable way, including the literal.

He needed Dean to rewrite reality into something Cas could justly live in. He needed Dean to make him feel wanted in this world where Cas so often felt unwelcome. 

Dean’s touch turned harsh and his motions grew almost aggressive, giving Castiel everything he asked. But there lingered something far more genuine. Dean’s intensifying frustration was more than raw passion.

Where Cas was trying to eliminate the world outside the shower, Dean was trying to preserve it.

But Cas was making it near impossible.

As Dean grunted and panted in his ear, taking Cas as fiercely and forcefully as he could without inflicting pain, Cas continued to beg and urge for more and more and more.

Dean’s hips struck erratically at his skin and his hands gripped impossibly tight at Castiel’s waist. Words stuttered at the tip of his tongue and he gasped vulnerably against his neck, his lips parted and soft. Cas could feel himself clenching around Dean’s swollen cock and then a sudden warmth inside him. The sensation sent tremors up his spine and he took his own erection into his still slightly numb hand and stroked himself to climax with Dean still thrusting unsteadily into him.

“Cas—,” Dean breathed. He held Cas close as he came, kissing roughly between his shoulder blades and nipping with his teeth.

Castiel felt empty and incapable of standing on his own two feet. He leaned back into Dean, fading away with his hard kisses and the soft sighs of his breath at his back. Dean’s hands were shaking again and his thumb nervously caressed Cas’ hipbone, tracing back and forth along it soothingly. Dean gently turned Cas around in his arms, and Cas was struck by the fury burning in his green eyes. His pupils darted right and left, searching Cas through and through for something he had failed to capture before. Something that escaped his understanding—whatever it was that made Cas so fleeting and vague.

Cas reached up and combed his fingers through a part of Dean’s hair, washing the last of the shampoo out that hadn’t rinsed out on its own. But Dean didn’t even acknowledge the touch. Dean’s jaw tensed with every edge becoming sharp and almost frightening. His shoulders steadily broadened and his spine straightened. The very small difference in height suddenly made Dean feel so unobtainable to Cas, and he didn’t know why. He caressed Dean’s face in his hands, silently afraid that if he didn’t then Dean would turn away and never look back.

“You know… I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been used for sex,” Dean muttered sourly. He looked down in guilt. “I never thought much about how it must feel when I do it… but now I know. And it feels real shitty, Cas.”

“I didn’t—,” Cas started.

“Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter,” Dean interjected.

“Dean, I’m sorry if that’s how I made you feel. It wasn’t my intention…” Cas whispered.

He averted his gaze and his once loving touch faltered and faded away entirely. His hands fell at his sides like dead weights, each and every finger suddenly numb with pins and needles; he couldn’t possibly make use of them even if he tried. Cas gnawed on his bottom lip, surely so hard that he could just about draw blood, and his already weak knees threatened to buckle beneath him.

“Cas… we’ve been over this,” Dean choked on Cas’ name, “you’re a shit liar.”

Dean pushed open the shower curtain and Cas jumped at the abrupt grating sound of the curtain rings against the shower rod. Something inexplicable in his chest tightened and coiled and pulled each edge of his lungs together into a tight knot at the centre—or at least that’s what it felt like. He knew that it wasn’t actually possible—even in this world of horrific monsters and powerful deities. It was his mind playing tricks on him again; all the human emotion erupting all at once, the guilt colliding with the despair that intertwined with the wrath that danced intimately with the fear.

It was more than he could withstand at once.

Cas was treading blindly through this cavernous pit of mortality, his lost hands searching what he knew was crumbling stone—the frail walls that threatened to bury him alive.

Dean wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom door ajar behind him. Castiel hesitated to follow. He turned off the shower with a shaking hand and the pipes groaned in retaliation as if protesting an ending they weren’t prepared for. Cas reflected the sentiment. He was unprepared for him and Dean to part so suddenly and on such bad terms. He truly hadn’t meant to hurt Dean in any way, but he was entirely unsurprised at somehow doing so nevertheless. It wasn’t the first time, after all, and it likely wouldn’t be the last, either. All Cas could do was apologise each and every time, and try to make amends for all that he had done, and then watch as he failed.

The ache inside him intensified to an inexorable pain. He thought, with some sense of acceptance, that the thing that came to rob him of light had no plans to return it to him. That light was gone for good. It was near impossible to convince himself otherwise. And, as he slowly followed after Dean, following the ever fading wet footsteps on the tiles, Castiel started to lose sight of why he should try to convince himself in the first place. It seemed a tiresome and pointless effort—one that was bound to inflict inconceivable consequences.

Castiel lost hope with every step he took.

He still felt ashamed of his weakness, but also at peace with it too. It cost him more to care. But he knew Dean didn’t deserve to be burdened like that. Dean shouldn’t have to suffer due to Castiel’s mistakes.

Cas quickened his pace, still clutching his towel at his waist, and he called out for Dean. He found the hunter hesitating at the end of the hall, half stepping through the door and half stepping back out of it. Castiel sighed and walked up to him, trying to appear firm in his resolve, but in reality he a mess inside.

“Dean,” Cas said gently.

Dean rubbed his brow with the back of his hand and stared at the floor, unwilling to look Cas in the eye. But he didn’t turn and leave like Cas expected.

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispered, “I truly didn’t mean to hurt you. I just…”

“You’re not okay,” Dean supplied for him.

Castiel flinched. Somehow it was worse when Dean acknowledged it. Cas used to be able to protect him—to fight and heal and be the one to take the bullet. But now he couldn’t do anything. Castiel was useless. Worse, he was a burden.

“Yes. I’m not okay,” Cas admitted. “But that doesn’t excuse what I did.”

“Well, of course it doesn’t,” Dean sniffed. He placed a hand on Cas’ shoulder and then slid it down his arm to hold his hand. Dean gave Castiel’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “You and me? We’re okay.”

“We are?”

“You’re kinda impossible to stay mad at,” Dean smiled a little. But there remained something sad about it, and he wouldn’t look at Cas for too long.

Cas knew he wasn’t entirely forgiven. But he would take whatever he could get.

“I get it, Cas. I do,” Dean said, “all this stuff with the angels and Heaven… yeah, it’s a lot. But you can’t blame yourself forever. No matter what you believe, this _was_ Metatron’s fault. You need to try letting it go and think about yourself for once.”

“But it’s my responsibility to correct my mistakes,” Cas argued.

“Sam and I are working on it.”

“You and Sam shouldn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged dismissively.

“I could help, Dean.” Castiel wasn’t sure if he truly believed that anymore. Maybe, once, he could, but now that time had long since passed them.

“I’m so tired of having this argument,” Dean muttered sourly and turned away.

Cas followed him to Dean’s room and watched as he got dressed. Dean paused midway and tossed some clothes to Cas who quietly thanked him and pulled them on. The shirt smelled like Dean. Like spiced cologne and gunpowder. It was what Cas imagined warmth to smell like. Something inside him ceased to ache.

“We wouldn’t have to have this argument if you would just let me—,”

Dean kissed him then, effectively cutting him off midsentence. Cas was so relieved to receive any display of affection from Dean that the thought was swept right out of his head. The words dimmed and then disappeared entirely from his tongue.

“Cas… promise me something,” Dean breathed once they parted.

“Anything,” Cas assured him.

“Promise me you’ll try being human?” Dean begged.

He held Castiel’s hands and entwined their fingers together. Cas leaned in closer to him and rested his head upon Dean’s shoulder, all just to secretly divert his gaze. And he stared guiltily at the wall beyond him as he said,

“Of course, Dean. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Sorry it has been such a long wait! I just got back from a holiday to go to a Supernatural convention (which was amazing by the way!!). Hopefully, chapters will be uploaded more consistently from now on, but with Christmas fast approaching, I will be busy at work a lot. But we shall see :)  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Keep your eyes peeled for more!


	9. Saran Wrap

Over the coming days, everything was better. Or rather, they were better days than the worse days, and Castiel found himself capable somehow of smiling and kissing Dean with genuine affection. The weight on his shoulders had supposedly alleviated, though something inside him warned that it had merely shifted into a temporary balance. All the same, he was struck by this sense of calm before the storm and he fell into it with ease.

He and Dean spent their time in various stages of undress, never finding time nor reason to be fully clothed around the bunker. Whatever clothing they put on was always inevitably pulled off again before the day was out, their hands pulling at one another’s belts and at the buttons on their flannel shirts. With the entire bunker free for them to roam, they found themselves venturing to rooms that usually sat abandoned for months at a time. And they cleared the dust from desks and shelves with their naked bodies flush against the furniture.

Once or twice they had broken something, possibly of some importance, and picked up the pieces only after they were done. Together they heard the sound of ceramic cracking on tile or the clatter of ancient volumes falling open with the binding splitting and the pages falling free. It was impossible to care about such things when they had one another.

Their lips were often swollen and red from fiery kisses, their necks littered with hickeys and bite marks that would likely take days, if not weeks, to clear. Dean’s back was marked with grazes of Castiel’s nails from where he had clawed hungrily at his skin, holding onto him throughout the throes of passion. Castiel had found it pointless to try combing the knots out of his hair, the state of it always dishevelled from Dean’s fingers running through it and tangling at the roots, tugging groans out of Cas all the while.

Cas could hardly believe there was such a way to love another like this.

These were the things the angels didn’t know or understand; the things _he_ never knew or understood. These were the things his kind took for granted and dismissed as animalistic and almost barbaric. They had reasoned the function of reproduction but assumed the act of sex had been defiled by humankind and their sordid love of intimacy. The angels had deemed it unnecessary. Castiel had too, once.

But now he felt the urges that had him pulling Dean into his arms and into his bed. The longing that had him loving Dean into the night, often as dirty and unforgiving as they could get. There was simply no denying the things he wanted—more specifically the things he wanted to do to Dean and the things he wanted Dean to do to him.

There was almost nowhere they had not been together.

Dean’s hands had slipped around his waist in the kitchen, his fingers daintily playing at the waistband of his jeans and then slowly undoing the buckle to ease his hand inside. And Cas had melted back into him with his breath hitching in his throat and his legs buckling beneath him. And with Dean’s mouth around him, Castiel had felt whole.

When Dean had been doing the abandoned load of washing, Castiel had seen the waistband of his pink wash-dyed underwear when he bent down, and all the restraint had been swept from him. Cas easily lifted Dean up onto the washing machine as the cycle started and caressed him fast and hot and slick in time with the rumbles of the machine.

When Cas was reading in the library, Dean feigned interest in the collection of books that Cas knew he would never read. He knocked a book from the shelf and made a point of bending down to retrieve it, but didn’t immediately stand up again. Instead, he disappeared beneath the table, crawling on his hands and knees until he was between Cas’ legs. Castiel startled at the sudden and very present touch of Dean’s hands and his lips, and he gripped the edge of the table tightly in his hands, panting into the quiet room.

When Dean was washing the Impala in the garage, Cas leaned back against the hood, his eyes glistening with misdeed and want. “Jesus…” Dean had breathed, the running hose forgotten in his hand, the flow of water missing the bucket and flooding the floor. “Don’t fucking tempt me,” Dean had growled with a devilish grin.

“Would I ever do such a thing?” Cas had feigned innocence, knowing Dean particularly liked that.

And they had made raw, passionate love there on and in the Impala, their bodies heated in the backseat with their skin drenched by the hose.

Most interestingly was the dungeon—frantically feeling one another in the pitch black room, their bare knees scuffing against the cement floor. And Cas had ground into Dean with everything he had, taking him the way he always wanted to. And there, finally, Cas got to bring out the handcuffs, just as he had often daydreamed.

The only room they had not gone to was Sam’s. There was an unspoken rule there that they both just knew without question. And every day they passed it without hesitance, their minds instead going to the war room or the laboratory or elsewhere.

But then, one day, Dean paused outside Sam’s room. Castiel stopped and looked back at him, his brow furrowing in wonder and confusion. And Dean smiled and suggestively waggled his brows. He gestured to Sam’s closed door in question.

“Really?” Cas asked in disbelief.

“What? Aren’t you up for it?” Dean teased. He sidled forward and pulled Cas in closer by his belt.

“Seems forbidden,” Cas explained. He was trying not to give in so easily.

Dean considered it for a moment before nodding in agreement. It was a line even he wasn’t quite willing to cross. Castiel’s tense shoulders eased; both in relief and disappointment. He couldn’t deny that the illicitness of that room ignited some excitement in him. And now that the idea had been presented, he couldn’t possibly dismiss it in its entirety.

“I have an idea,” Dean said, grinning like a mischievous child. He took Cas’ hand and guided him to the kitchen where he knelt down and dug through the various drawers. Finally, he sat back with the roll of Saran wrap and displayed it to Cas in triumph.

“I don’t get it,” Cas admitted.

“You will,” Dean reassured him, but then reconsidered, “or you know… maybe not. But it’ll be funny either way. Come on.”

Cas followed Dean back to Sam’s room and did as he was instructed, holding one end of the Saran wrap whilst Dean unravelled the roll, carefully winding a sheet at the base of the door so it was sitting taut and almost impossible to notice unless you were specifically looking for it.

“I still don’t understand,” Cas said.

Dean laughed quietly to himself and shook his head in mild amusement. “Just wait and see. The payoff will be awesome.”

Castiel somehow doubted that, but he decided not to argue or question Dean. Whatever this plan was, it made Dean happy, and that was the main thing. At least Dean had these small things to tide over his anxieties whenever Castiel was too far gone to help. Whenever Cas lost himself, Dean had Sam and the inside jokes they shared with another. Cas smiled sheepishly and made sure the plastic was set firmly in place before standing.

Dean tore off the roll and tucked it under his arm, his expression suddenly distant and lost in thought. Then he chuckled darkly and peered at Cas through his lashes, blinking daringly at him in lust. “I reckon we can find something else to do with this… something less PG.”

Castiel’s heart fluttered almost nervously. But also enticed by the suggestion. He couldn’t begin to imagine what exactly they could do with it, but the notion of finding out intrigued him and he nodded eagerly in response. Dean stepped forward and kissed him, purposely taking his lip carefully between his teeth and claiming rights to it. Cas sighed softly into the kiss and ran his hands up along Dean’s bare chest.

Together they walked clumsily down the hall, leaving and forgetting their planted trap in Sam’s doorway.

 

* * *

 

 

They laid amongst a bundle of blankets with torn strips of Saran wrap strewn around them and littered in knots at their arms and legs. The near empty bottle of hard liquor sat by Dean’s hip at a constant risk of being knocked over. Castiel’s tongue felt thick with it. His head spun with every movement, so he rested his head on Dean’s warm chest and listened to the slowly steadying beat of his heart. He traced Dean’s ribcage with his fingers, focusing on the heat of his skin and the gentle shift of his body as he breathed. Cas already felt the edges of sleep creeping in. His eyelids felt heavy and he forced back yawns with varying levels of success. He could quite easily fall asleep there, but he didn’t want to—not yet.

He and Dean could—and often did—spend hours at a time embracing like this, effortlessly moulding their bodies into the curves of one another, resting silently and peacefully in the safety of their home and each other’s arms. But it was rare for Castiel to truly feel absent of distress. It was their home, but he often had the sense that he was intruding there. Merely a tourist gazing from the outside in, traversing the scenery knowing he was bound never to see it again.

These doubts took something from these moments; tainted it in irreparable despair.

But, tonight nothing hurt. The dark corners of his mind were loose with intoxication and the negative thoughts simply refused to stick. It was much easier to believe he belonged there like another piece of the architecture—a permanent fixture that kept the whole place from crumbling down.

He didn’t dare risk losing that to the clutches of restless slumber.

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel whispered, the words incoherently slurring into one another.

“Hmm,” Dean hummed. He mindlessly rubbed Castiel’s arm and nestled his face down into Cas’ hair again.

Castiel kissed Dean’s chest lightly and the world spun at the effort. He was sure Dean had consumed far more alcohol than him, but he was still somehow more lucid—a seasoned drinker compared to the former angel.

“Cas… can I ask you something?” Dean murmured.

“A…anything,” Cas said. It came out more like “mmmthin”

“What do you dream about?”

Cas struggled to comprehend the question. But he knew that his fear had suddenly found a reason to creep back through the fissures in his consciousness and settle there at the forefront of his mind. Drunken, they immediately began to intensify. The memories of his nightmares flashed distorted before his eyes.

“Why?” He mumbled cautiously.  He suddenly wished he hadn’t had so much to drink.

“What?” Dean hadn’t understood.

“Why?”

Dean shrugged uncomfortably and Cas tightened his arm around Dean’s waist, trying and failing to hold him in place.

“Because… I don’t want this to be for nothing,” Dean admitted finally. “What we have? It scares me a little bit.”

Castiel shook his head in confusion. What did they have? Or, rather, what was so terrifying about it?

What had he done to arouse so many doubts and concerns in the hunter, and how could he possibly dispel them?

Cas feared he had somehow ignited the beginning of the end, just the way he always knew he would.

“Do you dream about the angels?” Dean pushed.

“…Sometimes…” Castiel admitted.

“What else?” Dean stopped rubbing his arm. His hand remained tight on his shoulder. There was nothing intimate about it anymore. They were still in one another’s arms, but they may as well be miles apart.

“Dean—.”

“Your grace?”

“I don’t s—see why this… matters,” Cas slurred.

“Cas,” Dean insisted, “Just humour me, okay?”

Dean’s hand constricted almost painfully on his shoulder.

“Yes. Sometimes,” Cas said finally.

He often dreamed of his grace. At the time it had drifted from his body like vapour, but, physically, it felt as if his insides had been painfully extracted. As if someone had cut into his throat and pulled his esophagus and lungs out. As if he had been emptied until he was nothing more than a hollow shell with a shadow of a soul left isolated inside. He suspected it would have hurt less to have each and every bone in his human body crushed one after the other. He believed he could better endure blistering fire or numbing ice.

Given the choice, he would suffer any pain aside that of losing his grace.

And he knew he would give just about anything to have it back, if not just to feel whole again.

“You still scream in your sleep sometimes,” Dean informed him. As if Cas didn’t already know.

“It’s hu—,” Cas started.

“Human things you aren’t adjusted to yet,” Dean finished for him with a distinctly dissatisfied sigh. “But isn’t it better? Isn’t _this_ better?”

“This?”

Dean was silent. His body tensed and his grasp on Castiel’s shoulder lifted as if infuriated by just the thought of touching him. Castiel clumsily sat up on one elbow and gazed down at Dean. His eyes were so hazed by liquor and exhaustion that he simply couldn’t see what he was looking for. He couldn’t read Dean’s expression or even try to make sense of what he had said wrong—that’s if he had actually said anything wrong at all.

“If you have to ask…” Dean muttered finally. He took advantage of Cas moving off of him and turned onto his side, facing the wall.

Castiel didn’t understand, but he sensed he would only make everything worse by asking—by seeking answers he was apparently meant to already know. Warily, he kissed Dean’s shoulder before laying down, keeping his hands close to his own body as not to touch him.

And they eventually fell asleep like that: the space between them taunting them into restless slumber and unpleasant dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Just a very short chapter this time (sorry about that!) Working retail this time of year is really kicking my ass. I'm hoping I'll have more time to write in the new year though, so stay tuned! In any case, I hope you enjoyed this tiny chapter! :)


	10. Hangover

Castiel braced his arms on the toilet seat and rested his head down in the crevice of his elbow. His stomach churned again at the horrid smell of his own sick and he clumsily reached up to flush it. His body heaved at the small effort and he coughed against his skin, trying with all he had to keep the remaining contents of his stomach down. The burning in his throat was vile, the lining essentially eroded by alcohol and bile, and the taste that lingered maliciously in his mouth tempted him to be sick all over again.

Cas had woken up like this, his entire body wracked by too much liquor and not enough sleep. It hardly helped that he hadn’t eaten for many hours, having taken to drinking on an empty stomach. His naivety had led him to imbibe more than he could handle, and far more than he really needed to be sufficiently drunk in the first place. He now knew his limitations but decided right then and there simply to never have another drop at all.

It seemed like the wisest decision that he could make.

Cas heaved again, but his stomach was so empty and raw by this point that nothing came out. He spat into the open toilet, his mouth still slick with tangy saliva, and then he withdrew to wipe his lips against the back of his arm. Sitting back, his head started to spin and pound in protest, and he resisted the temptation to curl up on the floor with his bare skin against the cold tiles.

Suddenly, a hand appeared by his head with a glass of water held out in offering. He wordlessly took it and investigated the contents of the glass, wondering why something so pure was making him feel all the more sick. He wrinkled his nose in mild disgust and went to set the glass down beside him on the floor.

“You have to drink it. Otherwise, you’ll get dehydrated,” Dean said. He settled himself at Castiel’s side with his legs crossed and gently rubbed Cas’ back in comforting circular motions.

“I’m already dehydrated,” Cas croaked, “I can feel it.”

“All the more reason to drink it,” Dean said with a faint, sympathetic smile.

Cas sighed and picked up the glass, investigating it once more as if it were possibly poisoned. Though, considering how atrocious he felt, poisoning wouldn’t be a bad way to go; perhaps he would even welcome it. Immediately, Cas felt guilty for even thinking it, because he knew it wasn’t as humorous as he would like to pretend, and it wasn’t just the hangover that had him willing to die like that.

“It looks like vodka. Or gin,” Cas complained.

“We didn’t drink vodka. Or gin,” Dean reminded him, clearly resisting every temptation to laugh.

“Ugh. Please… don’t say vodka or gin.”

“But you said vodka _and_ gin.”

“Yes, but it’s somehow worse when you say it,” Cas moaned before heaving once more.

It was just putting the most horrendous pressure on his stomach and he almost wished he could eat just to have something to throw up. But then the idea of food had him spitting the excess saliva again, the kind that slicked his mouth in preparation to retch. The taste of that alone made it almost possible, despite the absence of stomach contents.

“Okay, I promise I won’t say either of them,” Dean said, “though it’s tempting.”

Cas cast a quick glare at him before forcing himself to drink a few sips of the water. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, and he didn’t immediately get sick like he thought he would. Satisfied, he drank the rest and passed the empty glass to Dean’s waiting hand. Dean got up and refilled it with water from the tap before resuming his position on the floor. He was already dressed for the day—fully dressed for once, as if knowing not to anticipate any sex—and looked well-kempt despite not having yet showered, and sleeping just as little as Cas, if not less than.

Cas had felt Dean tossing and turning throughout the night, huffing and muttering under his breath restlessly. And with each movement, Cas had flinched and recoiled, his drunken mind swirling with guilt and confusion. Dean had been angry. So angry as not to cuddle him for the first time. And Cas had woken to find himself cold and without blankets, Dean curled up snuggled in all the covers as far on his side of the best as he could be without falling off the edge.

But, now Dean was entirely at ease. He continued to rub Castiel’s back, especially taking care to massage his shoulders and neck. There was nothing enraged about his touch in the slightest. In fact, it was gentle and loving and sympathetic. And then Dean kissed the back of his head and nestled his nose into his hair, clearly resisting the urge to kiss Cas properly.

Castiel began to wonder if he had imagined Dean’s anger last night. Had he, under the influence of too much booze, allowed his sordid hateful thoughts to venture into the realms of fiction? Had he cast the illusion of Dean’s frustration and rejection just to torture himself some more for all his irreparable actions?

He wouldn’t think to put it past himself by this point. After all, he couldn’t even escape into his dreams; unconsciousness leading him into torturous, scream-inducing nightmares.

Dean kissed between Cas’ shoulder-blades and took to smoothing his hands up and down the length of Castiel’s sides, caressing his muscles and ribs. Cas instinctively leaned into the touch, almost wishing it was capable of healing the way his own touch used to be. He closed his eyes, sensing the oncoming, inescapable dread.

And, just like that, he knew those good days were over.

As he continued to sink further and further into the depths of his own depression, he thought it so impossible to ever truly be okay—so impossible in fact, that he considered the past to be akin to a façade. He couldn’t have truly been happy then. There was no such thing. Or at least it wasn’t something within his reach.

He felt so sure of it now as he tried to come to terms with the stagnancy of his life.

As he tried to accept who he was and what he had done, and the impossible future he could never have because of it.

Castiel dipped his head down again, and this time it wasn’t because of the churning in his gut or because of the imbalance of his woozy head. It wasn’t because the toilet seat felt cool against his boiling skin or because the sleep deprivation was threatening to pull him under; even there sitting uncomfortably on the bathroom floor. It was because he found no reason to keep his head upright. It seemed easier to fold beneath the torment of the void—the empty space where the light used to be.

As Dean urged him to drink more water and endlessly kissed and caressed his skin, his own illuminated lantern couldn’t quite reach the depths of Castiel’s hollow centre, and the light very barely graced the dark edges. Cas knew Dean was trying, even if Dean himself didn’t quite know it yet. But he’d realise soon enough. And he’d just as soon see how pointless his efforts were, and how wasted his time was.

Dean deserved better.

Dean deserved someone whose mistakes were forgivable, whose efforts to do good didn’t go bad, and someone who could love selflessly and without the desperation of the dying. Dean deserved someone who could sleep without waking them in fits of screaming, someone who could do laundry without dyeing all the white clothing pink, someone who could cook toast without burning it and could hold their liquor and not make complete fools of themselves.

Castiel was none of those things. And he easily accepted that; the only trepidation being that perhaps he was too selfish to let Dean accept it too.

Were he kind, he would tell Dean to stop. He would make him withdraw his warm touch and his loving kisses, and he would force him to say goodbye. Were Cas noble, he would gather as little as he could take and he would leave the bunker, stepping out into the wild, threatening world to accept whatever fate would befall him.

But Cas wasn’t kind or noble.

He was wicked and cruel and entirely self-serving.

So instead of doing as he should, Cas instead whimpered and moved weakly into Dean’s arms, near collapsing against his chest. And, like he promised himself he would never again do, he started to cry. There was no sobbing this time; his cries were silent and steady. His tears stained Dean’s shirt, immediately ruining yet another perfect thing.

“Cas… it’s okay. It’s just a hangover,” Dean soothed.

But they both knew it was more than that. They both knew what was happening, and they both knew why. And maybe they both knew what this meant for them—because Castiel certainly did. Yet, despite all his guilt, Cas decided to delay the inevitable for as long as he could. He was going to take Dean’s love for as long he could get it.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered uneasily. He forced himself to withdraw to wipe his own tears, not allowing Dean to do it for him. “I’m fine. I think I just need to have a shower. Cleanse myself.”

“Try a bath instead,” Dean suggested. He stood up and reached down, took Castiel’s trembling hands, and helped him to stand too.

Cas distinctly felt ridiculous standing there naked and shivering despite the definite heat radiating all over his skin. There wasn’t any way he could look any worse, and he knew his breath smelled of alcohol and bile, and his face—as he saw himself in the mirror—was both red and blotchy and covered in sweat and tears.

“Yes. A bath sounds nice,” he agreed.

Dean shuffled his feet awkwardly and shoved his hands into his pockets, becoming shy all of a sudden. He leaned in closer to Castiel’s ear and murmured, “I have bath salts.”

“What?” Cas asked, blinking in confusion.

“Bath salts,” Dean repeated, actually blushing a little, “lavender scented. It makes the bath nice.”

When Cas didn’t respond, tilting his head in baffled surprise, Dean sighed in defeat and sifted through the bottom drawer under the sink and held out a small bag of bath salts. Cas took it and peered into the bag, giving the contents a curious sniff. He recognised it as the scent he sometimes found lingering on Dean—the one he always wondered about the origins of.

Now, he knew.

“I also have a sad, little candle,” Dean said, returning to the same drawer for a small, mostly melted-down purple candle and a lighter.

“Lavender?” Cas asked.

“Of course,” Dean confirmed with a small hint of a smile.

Cas sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He noticed that the redness in his face was already starting to soften. Some of the tension in his muscles had begun to ease and he nodded his head appreciatively, giving the candle a delicate sniff.

Lavender was now his favourite scent, and it likely would be for the rest of time.

“Understand that I’ll kill you if you tell Sam about this,” Dean warned, only somewhat serious. “I will deny it and I will kill you.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Cas assured him. “Worse comes to worst, I could always distract from this revelation by telling him about all the sex we have been having.”

Dean chuckled darkly and laced his arms around Cas’ waist, his fingertips brushing at the base of his spine and nearing the top of his ass cheeks.

“Clever,” Dean mused. His eyes glanced briefly at Castiel’s lips, and then he bit his own bottom lip in temptation. “I’d kiss you but…”

“Oh,” Cas quickly covered his mouth and stepped out of Dean’s embrace, “Sorry. I’m really gross, I know. Let me brush my teeth…”

Dean took the bag of salts and the candle from him and nodded with a kind smile. “You do that, and I’ll run you a bath.”

Castiel thought Dean was being far too kind to him. Too generous. Too understanding. Cas had done nothing to earn such genuine affection, and he resented himself for somehow receiving it anyway, and then resented himself even more for not arguing against it.  

Castiel continued to take and take and take without giving anything other than pain in return.

Dean kissed Cas’ cheek before kneeling beside the tub and turning on the taps, testing the temperature before putting in the plug. With Dean’s attention focused elsewhere, Cas allowed his body to fold in on itself. The colour drained entirely from his face and, as he looked into the mirror, his flat eyes reflected nothing. The harder he looked, the less he saw. And he looked very, very hard. It was to no avail, and he took to brushing his teeth with tired, bitter acceptance.

Those were the eyes that couldn’t recall having felt anything before. They were the eyes that would never be able to feel again.

By the time he finished brushing his teeth, Dean was filling up the bath with the scented salts and swishing it around to help them dissolve. Then he set down the candle (in a spot Cas only just realised had a very faint, purple ring of wax already) and lit it with the cigarette lighter.

Dean stood up and presented the ready bath with a sense of pride and accomplishment, also grinning bashfully at having told something so secret and innocent about himself. Another little thing Castiel found he loved about Dean—as if there weren’t enough things to love about him already.

“Welcome to my shitty version of ‘me-time’,” Dean said, “some cheap bath salts and a crappy candle.”

“It’s wonderful,” Cas said and he offered a timid smile. It was the most he could give, though he couldn’t have appreciated Dean’s efforts more.

Dean’s eyes flickered wisely for just a few seconds as he knew—to the extent that he could—what Castiel was thinking and feeling. He smiled gently and leaned into Cas for a kiss, this time taking advantage of Cas’ clean teeth and minty breath, and kissing him longingly on the lips. Cas kissed him back, but even with his whole heart in it, he knew it felt like a bare-minimum effort. And he was sorry.

“You enjoy your girly bath, and I’ll start on breakfast,” Dean instructed.

“Breakfast,” Cas wrinkled his nose, quickly dreading the possibility that he would have to sit in front of the toilet again so soon. Perhaps he wouldn’t actually find himself capable of leaving the bathroom for the remainder of the day.

“I know, Cas, but food _will_ make you feel better. I promise,” Dean said, again sounding sympathetic to Castiel’s alcohol-induced illness. “Don’t rush, yeah? Try to relax.”

Dean kissed him one more time before moving for the door. Castiel frowned and peered down at his feet, trying with his limited memory of the night before to recall just what had led to Dean sleeping so distant from him. To remember what it was that had enraged him so. And then he thought of something. Something he hadn’t understood at the time and still didn’t understand now.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean paused with his hand on the door handle.

“Last night… you said that ‘if I had to ask’…” Cas murmured weakly, “what did you mean? What did I have to ask?”

Dean’s eyes flashed dark and his face turned pale, all the colour creeping away and leaving his expression gaunt. His jaw clenched and his teeth visibly grinded, with the corners of his jaw shifting from the effort. Cas slowly panned his eyes down and saw, as he had dreaded, Dean’s tightly clenched fists.

Whatever Castiel had had to ask Dean last night, it still evoked the same sense of resentment and heartbreak. Perhaps it was even worse now, being dredged up and spat out again, with evidence implying that Cas hadn’t cared to remember it the first time. With Castiel’s lost expression suggesting he had been so insensitive as not to care then, and still didn’t care now.

“I don’t remember,” Dean said finally. Sternly.

“Dean, I know you re—,” Cas tried.

“No, I really don’t,” Dean cut him off, “and I don’t think it mattered anyway. We were smashed off our heads.”

Castiel frowned. His heart thudded in his chest and the sound reverberated deep in his ears.

Dean remembered. It did matter. And Dean hadn’t been too drunk.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel apologised, though he had no idea what he was apologising for. And he meant it with everything he had.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Dean dismissed with a forced casual shrug. He opened the door quickly. “Your bath is getting cold.”

Cas swallowed painfully and carefully stepped into the warm bath, settling down into the lavender scented water. He watched the small candle as wax dripped down the side, the wick burning it further down all the time—and Cas idly thought how, with time, the candle would one day become nothing at all.

Dean left and kept the door slightly ajar, disappearing probably to the kitchen to start on breakfast as he originally intended. Cas didn’t have to watch him leave to know when he was gone. He could sense his absence. He could feel the emptiness in the room because his presence alone wasn’t enough to fill it. Cas kept his eyes on that flickering candle, holding his knees up to his chest, and he allowed the warmth to encase him.

And then, once his fingers had wrinkled, he pulled out the plug and blew out the candle. For just a few minutes, he sat in the empty tub with the water on his skin turning cold.

He knew for sure then that he wouldn’t ever be okay again... if he had ever truly been okay to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! So this chapter has been a long time coming... Sorry about the wait! Things have been hectic lately, but hopefully, I'll have chapters coming more regularly from now on. (I wrote this one while sleep deprived at almost 5am so... don't hold me to that :P ) In any case, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know your thoughts in the comment, as I always appreciate your feedback :D xoxo


	11. Winter

The tiles were cold under Cas’ feet that morning; colder than usual. Winter had somehow crept up on him without him ever noticing. The evenings had steadily dropped in temperature, but, in the warmth of Dean’s arms and the comfort of thermal blankets, Cas hadn’t sensed the change. His mornings had been spent in the clutches of restless sleep, still encompassed in the safety of Dean’s familiar bed.

Time had so easily escaped him.

As he tread the quiet, icy halls, Cas tried to count back the days to understand how and when Fall had slipped into Winter.

More importantly, he tried to determine just how long ago he had made the angels fall.

The realisation dawned on him and his steps slowed with growing dread. It had been so long. Too long. And he had done nothing to rectify his actions—he still had no idea where to begin… if it were even possible. He knew there was little he could do if there was actually anything at all, but he hadn’t even tried. Instead, he had shut himself off from the reality of what he had done, using Sam and Dean’s prohibition on media as an excuse to hide. In truth, there had been so much time between Sam and Dean’s departure to Dean’s return, and Cas had taken so little advantage of it.

Were he honest with himself, Castiel would admit that he was afraid of seeing the damage he had caused.

He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen with his hands clasped together in front of him, his fingers wringing together and pressing firmly into his palms. His nails dug deep into his skin, carving fine, red crescents into it. The tips of his fingers were beginning to go numb again, and he knew it wouldn’t be long until his hands could no longer feel anything other than pins and needles.

Dean smiled at him from the kitchen table and patted the stool next to him. Cas swallowed hard and stepped further into the room, deciding halfway to the table to sit opposite Dean instead of beside him. He wanted to be able to hide his hands beneath the tabletop to mask the deepening etches of his nails in his palms. He didn’t want Dean to see the jitter of his left knee. He didn’t even want to imagine how his face looked up close. He didn’t want Dean to recognise the pale shade of his skin or the heavy bags under his eyes that had only deepened from the lack of sleep the night before.

Dean frowned but made no argument and carefully slid a cup of coffee across the table to him. Cas thanked him with an acknowledging nod of his head and he reached up to grasp the warm cup in his cold hand. As he lifted it to his lips, his hand trembled and his grip of the handle felt loose. He swiftly set the cup down without taking a sip and moved his numb hands into his lap. He couldn’t trust himself to hold anything.

“You alright?” Dean asked gently.

Cas nodded again. “Yes. The coffee is too hot,” he claimed.

Dean lifted his own mug to his lips and took a long drink. When he set it down, he moved it nervously from hand to hand, drawing his index finger around and around the brim. His eyes followed the motion, avoiding Castiel’s heavy gaze.

They both knew that the coffee was lukewarm, if not bordering on cold.

Dean got up and went over to the counter, making more noise than necessary while pulling out utensils and ingredients from the pantry. He was trying so hard to fill the void with something. Anything. And the clattering of butter knives and the rustle of a bread bag was a lot more than anything Cas had to offer.

And, again, Castiel was sorry.

Cas watched Dean’s back as he got to work putting something together for the both of them. He observed the tension in Dean’s bare and broad shoulders. He couldn’t help but notice the way the flex of his arms was more constrained than necessary. Dean was trying so hard to be at ease, but his stress and concern wouldn’t allow it. Castiel had induced something horrid within him that made it impossible to relax.

Whatever this was… whatever was robbing Castiel of light, it was surely bleeding into Dean as well.

“We should go out today,” Dean suggested suddenly with his back still turned.

“Out? You mean… outside?” Castiel was sincerely stunned. He hadn’t left the bunker since the angels fell. For months Sam and Dean had insisted that it was too dangerous to go outside the warded walls, and, after so many rejections, Cas had given up asking. Eventually, the question became mute as he had lost the desire to leave his bed, let alone the bunker.

“Yeah, outside. Where else would I mean by out?”

Castiel shrugged grimly. His thoughts instantly went to death as a definition for ‘out’, but he refused to say as much. He saw no reason to make matters worse.

“I guess we could,” he allowed, though he was clearly hesitant.

Having isolated himself from the world for so long, Cas’ imagination had managed to run rampant. He visualized a world in chaos, with angels jumping from vessel to vessel, leaving broken and bleeding human corpses behind. He thought of the angels slaughtering one another, leaving scatterings of scorched wing marks across the globe. And he felt their confusion and agony as they walked amongst the humans they could never understand or truly be at peace with.

Cas didn’t feel prepared to see his fears come alive with his own eyes.

Dean came back over to the table and placed a plate down in front of Cas. He’d made them both a PB&J sandwich, which he knew was still Cas’ favourite. Cas thanked him quietly and offered a quaint, not-quite-there smile before picking at the crust the way he often did. Despite having been sat across from him before, Dean opted for the seat beside Castiel this time. Their legs brushed together beneath the table, and Dean’s foot played idly at the hem of Cas’ pyjama bottoms, tickling at the skin of his ankle. Glancing over, Cas saw Dean comfortably biting into his sandwich and watching the wall as he chewed. His touch, as cutely suggestive as it was, was most absent of ulterior motive; leaving it up to Cas to interpret it however he liked.

Despite the comfort and distraction of Dean’s affection, Castiel’s thoughts had already surpassed the bunker’s walls and were traversing the world outside them, picturing death and destruction in every direction. It wasn’t quite the mindset he could make love to, and so he took Dean’s touch as nothing more than innocent banter, which ceased eventually when Dean finished his food and got up to clean their plates.

Swallowing the last bite, Cas stood up and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, nestling his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. He kissed gently, his lips lingering for a little while longer than they normally would. Dean sighed and instinctively leaned back into his embrace, perhaps relieved that Cas had instigated it in the first place. At his worst, Cas would desperately take assertions of love whilst failing to give any in return. And it wasn’t by fault. He felt there was no point in denying that he loved Dean more than Dean could ever love him. But, somehow, his ability to show it became stunted and buried beneath his irrefutable fear of breaking everything he touched.

Sometimes, it didn’t even occur to Cas how broken Dean must feel whenever he failed to touch or kiss him.

Dean turned around in Castiel’s arms and easily graced the corner of his lips with his thumb, wiping away a dab of either peanut butter or jelly. Dean rested his thumb at Cas’ lips who obediently parted them and gently sucked. Dean smiled and withdrew his hand, leaning in for a kiss. Their mouths tasted sweet as their kiss swiftly deepened, and Dean had to stop, breathless, before they went any further.

“You stun me, baby,” Dean breathed. He shook his head to regain his senses. “Go get changed, I’ll ready the car.”

Cas nodded dutifully, kissed Dean one more time, and then left the room.

When he went down to the garage five minutes later, he paused just outside the doorway. He could hear Dean’s hushed murmurings into the phone, his soft words weighted with apprehension and… was that frustration? Cas definitely thought so as he pressed himself against the wall and strained to hear exactly what Dean was saying.

“I don’t know how long. Just a few more days, maybe a week… a week and a half, tops,” Dean murmured. “Just turn them inside out and get an extra day’s wear out of them. Or go to a laundromat like a normal person.” A long pause. “Why didn’t you just stay at Jody’s?” Another pause. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re too considerate. But surely she understands… well, maybe not. How are you meant to explain a depressed ex-angel, even to someone like Jody?”

Castiel physically winced but forced himself not to withdraw. A sadistic part of him wanted to hear what Dean had to say about him. He almost needed to have his suspicions proven and his fears validated by Dean’s resentment for having started an intimate relationship with him in the first place.

Cas could finally hear in Dean’s own words everything he had wanted, but refused, to say.

“He was doing fine for a few days. He was doing really good, actually… and then he just…,” Dean sighed, “I don’t know. He just suddenly lost it and everything fell back to square one again. He can’t or won’t talk about it and I’m kinda afraid to ask.” Dean paused again, but Cas could hear the quiet, methodical pattering of his feet as he paced. “No, I haven’t told him what’s going on…” Pause. “Because I can’t, Sam, I just can’t. I look at him and I just see this broken shell and I can’t bring myself to tell him, knowing it will tear him apart.” The pacing suddenly stopped short. “He can’t do anything, Sam. It’s not even that he’s human now, it’s just that he is so fucking hopeless, I don’t think he has it in him to try anymore.”

Cas peered cautiously around the corner and saw Dean leaning forward against the hood of the Impala, one hand pressed and holding up his weight, and the other tightly clutching his phone to his ear. His head dipped forward, dejected and totally defeated.

And it was all Castiel’s fault.

Castiel was causing Dean’s distress, he was keeping Sam from coming home, and his actions had more than likely caused irreparable destruction—devastation to angels and humans alike. His inability to get up some mornings, let alone face his wrongdoings, had burdened the weight of the world on Sam and Dean’s shoulders.

Castiel had become useless.

He was a fallen soldier.

A warrior with no fight left in him.

A hopeless, empty void that couldn’t save anyone, not even himself.

And Dean knew it too.

There was only so much Dean could withstand and only so far he could go to mask his true aversions and frustrations. Eventually, without even trying, Cas would break him. Everything they had would fade into dust and forgotten once-beens that even retrospection couldn’t beautify. Dean would one day look back and remember those few weeks he’d foolishly tried to love a tired and broken thing. He would regret all the time he had wasted on something so dissatisfying and poisonous. Any fond memories would be polluted by Castiel’s tears and his heavy silences and his tired bones that couldn’t be lured out of bed.

They were already tainted by Cas’ failings and greed and cumbersome neediness.

“Please, just give it a little longer. I’ll call and tell you when it’s best to come home,” Dean said gently, “if you really, really need me, then I’ll be there. But, Sam… I mean **_really_** need me. I’m afraid of leaving him alone. I’m afraid of what he might do. I try to sleep at night and I just keep thinking of what would happen if I came home and found him—.” Dean’s voice trembled and he took a long, shaky breath. “Thanks, Sam,” he whispered finally before hanging up.

Castiel stepped back from the corner and hid beyond the wall. He didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping—adding yet another thing onto his growing list of faults. He waited a few more moments before stepping through the open doorway, trying with everything he had to act comfortable and totally naïve. It was surprisingly easy. At first, he feared that the pain would linger in his features; that the emptiness would pierce his eyes and leave a quiver at the corners of his lips. But there was nothing. His expression was content: a blank canvas absent of riddles and doubts. He looked like his old self again with stiff, broadened shoulders and an unwavering resolve to his stride.

The vast agony had left him entirely numb.

“Ready?” He asked Dean.

Before Dean could reply, Cas clambered into the passenger seat and shut his door. Dean hesitated to follow, testing the doorhandle warily twice before finally opening the door and settling down in the seat beside him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and fumbled with the keys, suddenly at a loss as to which key was which. Cas watched him, mildly bemused, unsure as to how Dean’s bitterness could so closely resemble the sadness Cas so often felt.

Cas tentatively reached over and took the keys from Dean, passing them back again after selecting the correct one. Dean murmured a thank you and started the ignition, taking extra care to pull out of the garage as if suddenly thwarted by the slightly curved road that he had driven along countless times before.

Once out in the open, Dean’s free hand sought Castiel’s and slipped easily into his loose grasp. His calloused palm was warm against Cas’ cool skin and their fingers intertwined. Cas squeezed back and turned his attention to the window.

Out here, everything was at peace. The trees drifted in the breeze and blurred as the car picked up speed. Sunlight glinted through the canopy in heavenly waves and flickered like a pulsing heart against Cas’ pale skin. He rolled the window down and peered out into the wilderness. The wind swept through his limp hair and revived it with wild texture. He hadn’t noticed the staleness of the bunker until the fresh air filled his hollow lungs and made them feel practically airborne. Taking deep, practiced breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth, it was as if his stomach lifted and his chest expanded for the first time in months.

Everything heavy simply faded into the open sky.

And, god, was he glad to feel it go.

It wasn’t long until the sun began to burn, but he didn’t care. The heat reddening his skin was nothing compared to the dull shadow that had graced it before. He welcomed what he knew would later be a horrendous sunburn, relieved to know he would finally feel something with a physical source. It was something he could see and touch and feel, and it had an origin he could understand.  

Just the thought of it was glorious. 

What’s more, he knew it would soothe and heal over time. Which was more than what could be said for his far more profound wounds.

They drove for an hour with the radio quietly humming against the roaring wind whipping through their windows. Dean idly tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat, often losing pace whenever the music softened. Cas watched and mused over it for much of the journey. It was easy to become captivated by these insignificant moments whenever his repetitive thoughts ceased and allowed him to do so. And they had indeed ceased; even if only temporarily.

He was somewhat comforted by the peaceful state of the world outside, but his attention was naturally drawn to the beautiful man beside him instead. The further they ventured, the more Castiel’s fears lessened, as nothing at all resembled the chaos he had envisaged. And the more time that passed, the more momentous Dean became.

It was if the dust had cleared and Cas could finally see.

Dean had always been striking, but there with his expression comfortably lost, he truly took Castiel’s breath away. His green eyes glistened in the sunlight and Cas was better able to see the full length of his pale lashes. Faint freckles dusted Dean’s cheeks and nose—more than Cas actually remembered ever noticing before. It stunned him to think there was anything about Dean that his attentive eye had managed to miss. He wondered if his humanity had clouded his retrospection, or if he had been so blind as to overlook flawed perfection when it was right in front of him.

His eyes panned down to Dean’s slightly undersized flannel shirt. The hem was beyond the point of fraying and had begun to completely unravel on one side. The seam of Dean’s sleeve had clearly been torn and patched time and time again over however many years, which suggested that this shirt was possibly favoured above all others. Where much of Dean’s clothing had been thrown out or abandoned after being ravaged by violence or Castiel’s inability to correctly do a load of washing, this shirt had survived. No, it had been revived countless times and worn with love despite its obvious shabbiness. Castiel remembered once commenting on it years ago—back when its fabric was near new and unhindered—about how it suited Dean. He’d said it in passing, though he had stared as he so often did back then before he fully understood why it was impolite to do so. It was such a simple remark, but Dean had run his hand down the front to the final button and near blushed at the words.

After that, he seemed to wear it more often.

Still, to this day, Dean cherished the fond memories of a tired and worn thing. He could have replaced it, and maybe he should have, but Cas knew that he never would.

Dean wasn’t someone to throw away the things he loved. Instead, he kept them forever.

“Pull over,” Cas said and reached forward to turn the music off completely.

Dean gently swerved the car over to the side of the road and parked on the rocky terrain. Cas sidled in closer and kissed Dean’s cheek, his jaw, and then finally his neck. He wanted Dean to feel loved. It was important that Dean knew he was truly wanted and desired, even if it still wasn’t enough.

At least it was everything Cas could give. Maybe even more.

“Can we sit outside?” Cas asked.

Dean nodded and kissed Cas once before opening the door and getting out, taking a brief moment to search the immediate area for any looming dangers. Dean’s eyes panned the trees and the seemingly endless road ahead of them before finally settling on Cas. There appeared to be nothing to be afraid of as Dean’s tension eased and he relaxed into the promise of peace.

Cas stood with his face up toward the sky. It had been so long since he last stood basking in the warmth of the sun. He felt it kissing his skin, but it was the way it caught the fabric of his shirt and the density of his jeans that made him smile. The heat pierced through the fissures of his thin shirt and graced the skin beneath, somehow filling his hollow centre with a sense of hope. The bunker had, over time, overwhelmed him with its stagnancy and he had seeped into the pale walls and bright lights like a passing echo. He didn’t truly exist there. Out here, he felt almost part of something, and he hoped Dean saw him that way too.

Dean sat on the hood of the Impala and watched Cas as he opened his arms to the wind as it picked up speed. It was a good day, as far as the bitter beginnings of winter would allow. The sun was combatting the cold breeze that Cas knew would steadily evolve into a gusty flurry of snow. Sooner rather than later, the sun would lose the war and they’d all be temporarily pitched into days spent bundled in many layers, warming their hands in front of the heater, and kicking the slush out of their shoes.

But, for now at least, all was well.

Cas eased himself up onto the hood beside Dean and naturally leaned into him; arm against arm, thigh pressed to thigh, hand touching hand. Cas smiled delicately. Daunting as it was, Cas couldn’t truly recall the last time he had. It felt like the first time in forever. Dean must have thought so too, since he leaned into Cas and took the smile sweetly between his lips, kissing him and capturing the briefest of moments for all that it was worth. Cas knew Dean deserved more than the fleeting and the weak, but he didn’t want to believe that he’d never be more than just that. He’d heard Dean, heard the waver in his usually solid voice and the nearly imperceptible cry behind each and every word. Cas had done that to him. Not for the first time, and not for the last. But he had to believe that Dean was still there for a reason—there and falling effortlessly into his arms.

Castiel had to believe it. He just had to try.

“If I’d known we’d be stopping, I would have filled the cooler,” Dean said eventually.

“It’s okay, we don’t need it,” Cas assured him, “besides, I still don’t favour alcohol after that last time…”

Dean chuckled darkly and nudged Cas’ leg with his knee. “Hey, Cas… vodka and gin,” he teased.

Castiel shuddered with genuine disgust and wrinkled his nose at the horrendous memory of sitting hunched over the toilet with the entire contents of his stomach emptied into the bowl. He could practically taste the bitter tang of bile just from the thought alone. Shaking his head, he quickly rejected the trauma and swallowed hard.

“You promised never to say those god-awful words again,” Cas reminded him.

“You’re right, I did,” Dean granted, “but I also said it was tempting. I gave into it. Couldn’t help myself.”

“You’re just cruel,” Cas said flippantly and rocked his shoulder against Dean’s.

“Totally sadistic,” Dean agreed lightly and leaned back on his elbows. He tilted his head back to gaze up at the sky. A gust of wind swept through his hair and ruffled the material of his shirt up his stomach.

Cas turned, somewhat uncomfortably, onto his side and gently placed his hand on Dean’s exposed skin, moving it gradually to his waist. He considered saying something. Admitting what he had overheard and just asking the questions that he’d unsuccessfully tried to suppress. Like: where did they go from here? What if Cas couldn’t escape this unscathed? Could Dean still love him despite it? Despite the days spent bound to his bed? Despite the odour he exuded whenever he couldn’t muster the energy to shower? Despite his guilty and untameable tears?

Cas knew that were it Dean in his place, he’d still love him despite that and more. There was no obstruction too great and no burden too heavy that could rob him of the sensations he felt right now in this moment.

The unspeakable thing that robbed Castiel of light and left him so empty couldn’t take _that_ from him. Even _it_ wasn’t strong enough. And, were it to try, Cas knew he’d find enough fight within him to combat it and win. He simply loved Dean too much and so purely and completely.

There were only a few things Cas knew for sure. He knew he loved Dean. And he knew that Dean probably loved him too… but he also knew Dean shouldn’t.

Castiel sighed and laid back, ignoring the discomfort of the hard metal beneath him and the awkward angle. His arm remained loose over Dean, and his hand gracefully ran up and down his side. He felt the soft material of Dean’s shirt and then the tender warmth of his skin, and went back and forth between the two. Dean hummed and closed his eyes. Cas stared at his serenity and internally debated the sincerity of it.

It seemed real. But Cas couldn’t fully dispel his doubt. He couldn’t help but wonder: ‘what if?’

Cas slid one leg over Dean’s, making himself more uncomfortable still, but it seemed better than the alternative. Better than falling away forever or watching as Dean faded away like ash swept into the sea. It seemed wise to tether himself to Dean, just to be sure.

Closing his eyes, Cas focused on the sun kissing his cheek and the steady rise and fall of Dean as he breathed. It helped. The more he fixated on where he was and who he was with, the better he felt. Unlike most things in life, this was easy.

Castiel opened his mouth to speak. To say ‘I love you’, or something of that regard, but then his head was abruptly struck with the most piercing of sounds. He sat up immediately and clutched at his head, crushing in his temples hard with the palms of his hands. The inside of his skull felt as though it had suddenly swelled and the bone was crushing from the inside out. The noise burrowed deeper into his brain and he felt his wild pulse in his hands and his neck and his ears. His throat constricted and he clenched his jaw so hard he could taste blood from where his teeth had bit down into his cheek. Every muscle tensed like all the air had been ripped from his lungs. A heat burned his eyes and momentarily suffocated his sight with bright and impenetrable white. Castiel couldn’t see or hear or speak until voices erupted in every crevice of his mind. There were so many of them, all talking at once, each distinctive octave overlaying the other, illegible cries of pain and confusion.

Cas didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

He hadn’t heard anything on angel radio for months now, and he had come to believe that he had been entirely omitted from Heaven and the angels. He had been human for too long. Everything that had made him _him_ had vanished and left him well and truly fallen. Until now.

“Castiel?” A voice said, surfacing above all the others.

Desperate to escape the torturous and all-encompassing noise inside his skull, Cas focused on that one voice and allowed it to erase everything else. Cas fell swiftly and completely into it and listened again for his name. For anything. Anything to free him from the sudden and unbearable onslaught of agony. At first, there was only an empty silence, but then, there it was again, distant and unsure.

“Castiel?”

“Cas!”

There was another voice. It was closer and urgent and immediate in Castiel’s ear. He felt heated, calloused hands around his wrists, pulling down hard. Cas’ hands fell away from his ears and the white in his eyes slowly dissipated to reveal the road and the canopy of trees on either side. His muscles couldn’t loosen on their own and instead remained tight and pained in his shoulders and lower back. The taste of blood intensified inside his mouth and he leaned forward, shakily, to spit onto the dirt. Dean automatically reached forward and ran his thumb across Cas’ bottom lip, and it came back red. 

“What the hell was that?!” Dean asked, alarmed.

Castiel blinked dazedly and riskily eased himself off the hood of the Impala. He swayed on his feet for a moment before steadying himself with a hand against the metal. He spat again, his whole mouth now slicked with the metallic tang of his own blood. He tested the wound in his cheek with his tongue and winced. The voices were gone. The ear-splitting, shrill siren had disappeared, but his ears were still ringing. His stomach turned. His pulse slowed. He couldn’t feel the world beneath him; not yet.

“Cas?” Dean quickly slid off the hood and held Cas’ arms, holding him upright and meeting his eye.

“I’m fine,” Cas tried to reassure him.

“Don’t bullshit me. Not now,” Dean demanded, his eyes manic and dangerous.

Castiel was afraid. He couldn’t bear to burden Dean further. Not with this. Not now.

“It was angel radio,” Cas explained sombrely.

Dean hesitated. “Angel radio? I thought you couldn’t tap into that anymore?”

“I couldn’t.”

“So, what changed?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting it.”

Dean clenched his jaw and searched Castiel’s eyes for the lie, but one didn’t exist there. He perceptibly eased into a sense of trust. He could see how shaken Cas was, and that he was at a loss as to why it happened or how or what it all meant.

“What were they saying?” Dean asked, now guiding Cas back to the car. He opened the passenger door and eased him down into the seat, obviously eager to get him back to the bunker as soon as possible.

Before Dean shut the door, a gust of wind swept through them and made Castiel shiver. He swore it was the arrival of bitter winter. The once so distant clouds now passed over them and cast them into shadow. Castiel’s skin turned cold.

Fall had died.

“I couldn’t understand them,” Cas told Dean once he sat behind the wheel. He omitted the sound of his name from the truth. “They were so loud. There were so many voices crying at once…”

“Crying?”  

Castiel nodded.

“It was the sound of agony, Dean,” he said and his voice wavered.

Dean didn’t respond as he turned the car around and pressed firmly on the accelerator, ignoring the speed limit in his despairing efforts to get home. He wanted to believe Cas was safe in the bunker. That nothing could penetrate those walls and harm him. But something had lingered inside all along—inside Cas. And there was no hiding from that. The faster Dean drove and the nearer they were to home, the more Cas believed that.

That voice calling his name would never leave him. It fed on the hollow centre of his being.

“Do you hear them now?” Dean asked finally.

“No,” Cas mumbled. But he did. He still heard their echo; their pain. He would never stop hearing them.

“It’s going to be okay, Cas,” Dean promised. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. His eyes were focused on the road, but Cas saw the fear glistening inside them, ready to escape in the form of tears. Dean was petrified. He already sensed what this could mean for them, and Cas knew it too.

The angels had come for him.

And Cas knew that, eventually, he would go to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! So sorry this chapter took so long!! Writer's block is actually the worst. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know what you thought in the comments, as I always love hearing your feedback. Thank you for being so patient with me! <3


	12. Sacrifice

Cas idly stirred his tepid bowl of half-eaten oatmeal, having already lost all interest in finishing it. It was already beginning to solidify into an unappetising ball of mush that he would much rather flush down the sink than consume. He set his spoon down in the bowl to turn the page of his book and traced the lines a few sentences in as if to remind himself where he was up to. It was so easy to lose focus. He had previously failed to notice just how distracting Dean could be, but now he had become impossible to ignore. Cas couldn’t overlook the heavy-handed way Dean conducted even the most basic of tasks: pushing, pulling, lifting, and dropping things roughly and loudly.

Or perhaps it just seemed that way when compared to Castiel’s delicate touch.

Cas once had to take care not to break the things he touched. The differences between Heaven and Earth were boundless. There had been a lot to learn from the very moment Castiel’s feet first touched the ground. Of course, back then, his curiosity had been stifled and frequently frowned upon by the other angels. His duties had taken precedence despite the urges he felt to explore, and he had left much the same way he had arrived. It had been just over a century before he was to return to Earth… and he never would have believed it then had someone told him that he would never truly be welcome home again.

Since then, Cas had come to understand many things, but there was still just as much, if not more, that eluded him. It didn’t take long to witness fragility first hand. Sure, he had heard about it often, usually in the snide remarks the angels made about humans, sneering sometimes about their weakness and about the way they apparently liked to break one another. Cas had found their crude observations to be only partially true. There was so much on Earth that the untethered power of an angel could crush without even trying, and humans were indeed perilous and fragile things. But they deserved great care. They weren’t any less significant because of it. And Castiel had discovered that while humans did tend to break one another, there were countless others that sought to fix one another as well.

That’s what the angels had never understood. It was what they had overlooked; gazing down at Earth with a clouded eye.

There was an undeniable complexity to humankind that had quickly struck Cas and captivated his full attention. He couldn’t deny that there had been instances in the past in which he considered staying behind when his brothers and sisters inevitably returned to Heaven. Even before he had fully committed himself to the Winchesters. This was in the days of compliance and loyalty to his own kind, saying what he was expected to say and doing as he was told to do. They had only come as fleeting ideas that he had quickly dismissed out of fear that he might give into them. They were reckless and irrational wonderings he knew he ought not to have and knew never to glorify.

These dangerous fascinations and his lust for a human life had strengthened over the years but had since ceased almost completely.

He supposed there was a massive difference between holding humanity carefully in the palm of your hand, and being the humanity held in the palm of another. That’s what mortality felt like a lot of the time. Castiel was this miniscule, weak thing being crushed in the clutches of something much greater than him. And it was as if it didn’t know it was squeezing too hard; it couldn’t hear his desperate pleas for help or for a swift end to his misery.

Castiel wished he could once again feel that excitement and illicitness of those long ago daydreams. He wished humanity and Earth appealed to him the way it once did. Cas wanted to see the same beauty he once had. It was still there of course… there for a second and gone the next. But, he realised that perhaps it never truly left at all. Sometimes he just couldn’t see it. The complexities that once fascinated him now haunted him instead. He was blinded by the dark ways of the world and suffocated by his small, helpless role inside it. The once-been angel badly imitating a human being.

He had never imagined being part of humanity in such a literal way. Thinking back, he realised that his musings had never involved his sacrifice. Castiel had always imagined himself whole, walking the Earth and being accepted for who he was by those that weren’t quite like him. Castiel wasn’t complete. He was nothing more than a shadow of what he once was, and he felt that the absence of his grace had taken so much else with it too.

It wasn’t the same to touch without the threat of breaking it, he thought. These days, his purposeful, delicate touch meant nothing. His efforts accomplished nothing. The caution was unwarranted, because there was nothing he could do to anything or anyone, and the acceptance was tainted by having to change to earn it.

Castiel sighed and closed his book, not bothering to bookmark or remember the page. He didn’t care where the story would have led him. Ultimately, all stories ended the same way. Even his own.

He could still hear Dean down the hall, his heavy footsteps coming and going as he moved, his heavy efforts to do whatever it was he was doing, the heavy repercussions for touching whatever it was he was touching. Everything was heavy with Dean unless he made the effort otherwise.

Unable to ignore him any longer, Cas got up from his chair and went to investigate. In the library, Dean was rearranging the shelves, likely out of boredom and in an attempt to self-soothe without the use of alcohol. Castiel suspected it wasn’t working since Dean’s expression still seemed forlorn as he heaved another stack of books from one side of the room to the other. He also suspected Sam would have numerous disapproving comments to share were he present to see it.

Cas picked up a waiting pile of books and carried them over to Dean, only hesitating once he got close.

“Where do you want them?” he asked.

Dean considered it for a moment and still seemed unsure as he nodded his head at the next bookshelf. “Over there, second shelf from the bottom.”

Castiel began putting the books in place slowly, reading the spines of each as he put them down. Once he was finished, he stood up to gather more but paused to inspect the work Dean had already done. Like with most things, there had to be an order to them that only Dean understood. To Cas’ untrained eye, there was no rhyme nor reason to the new organisation.

He couldn’t decide why this distressed him as much as it did… whether it was because he didn’t understand the method or because it possibly meant that he didn’t truly understand Dean. Not in the way he once thought he did.

Castiel swallowed firmly and picked up more books, moving even slower than before and losing focus multiple times during his task. He sometimes found himself knelt down with the same book in his hand after a minute or more had passed, the letters of the title boring into his mind but the meaning of the words not quite sinking in.

Dean sidled in closer and wrapped his arms around Cas’ waist once he stood to get another stack. Dean leaned in and traced Castiel’s neck with his lips, kissing lightly between his neck and shoulders up to his earlobe. Cas sighed lightly and tilted his head slightly to one side, gifting Dean with more room to taste him.

They hadn’t spoken much over the last few days. Or rather, they had spoken, but they had never expressed what was actually on their minds. They had both tiptoed around the issue, neither wanting to be the first to mention what had happened that day out on the road. Dean hadn’t enquired further about it and Cas hadn’t divulged anything more. It seemed easier to ignore the concerns they had: that Cas would leave, and that maybe he should.

These words had sat barren on their tongues and caught in their throats and heavy in their hearts ever since. Cas swore that when they kissed he could almost taste it on Dean’s lips; startling bitter and near impossible to cleanse afterward. He knew Dean was burdened by it, and that it grew more torturous day after day to just sit and ponder and wait for the inevitable. He had questions to ask and allegations to make and accusations to throw that Cas couldn’t honestly refute. It was an argument neither was yet willing to have. Neither wanted to taint what they had, both afraid that there would be no getting it back.

Castiel was too selfish to do it, and Dean likely pitied him too much to do it first.

Their time together was limited and they both knew it. Rather, they were sickeningly aware of it every minute of every day. Cas could hardly spare an hour to sleep, tossing and turning throughout the night, never slipping into a deep enough slumber to dream. He knew the consequences of this were beginning to show on his face. The already dark circles under his eyes were puffy and shadowed like bruises; the redness of his sunburned skin had already faded and peeled, leaving something sallow behind in its wake; his eyes were eternally dim and tired, desperate for rest.

Cas believed Dean wasn’t fairing any better. His usual hearty appetite had faded into picked at meals; he had turned away from beer in favour for much harder liquor, having come to bed twice already with the odour of booze strong on his breath and a definite intoxicated sway to his steps. Cas had found him one night hunched over the toilet, heaving not from alcohol or something he ate, but rather from a horrid dream of his own. Dean had managed to describe it in a few hushed words, surely downplaying the true disconcerting details and keeping the worst of it to himself. But it had been enough to make Cas physically tremble. When they went back to bed after, they held each other tighter than they ever had before.

Castiel felt heart-wrenched. He felt it all the time.

With Dean’s lips against his skin, he was sure his heart had just completely torn in two.

Shivering slightly, Cas turned in Dean’s arms and kissed him tenderly on the lips, caressing his face delicately in his hands. _‘Your delicate touch means nothing’_ , he reminded himself somewhat sourly, and moved his arms around Dean’s neck, tangling his fingers into the roots of his hair. Dean’s breath momentarily hitched. His hands tightened at Cas’ waist, pulling him closer. His fingers very barely slipped beneath the material of Cas’ shirt, seeking the skin beneath.

Their intimacy hadn’t ceased since that day on the hood of the Impala, but much of the heat had paled into something much softer and needy. It was careful, true, and honest lovemaking that spoke as much, if not more, about craving. Cas needed Dean, and Dean said he needed Cas too. They went to their bed together and made love in the simplest and softest of ways, taking their time and kissing adoringly. It was indulgent in a very pure and understated way. But it was impossible to ignore the undercurrent of melancholy, not with each other, but rather the belief that it could very well be for the last time.

Castiel wanted their last time to be different. He wanted it to be something Dean could think back on fondly. He needed the lasting memory of him to be lively and passionate; the way he truly felt in the stolen depths of his being. He wanted Dean to remember him and smile. As it stood, Cas was sure that Dean would one day stop and regret what he had done. It wasn’t fair. Dean deserved so much more. And Cas wished to leave with traces of Dean’s warm kisses on his skin and an ache between his legs where Dean had made him feel whole.

If Cas were to die, he wanted to die knowing he had made the most of it. That it hadn’t been for nothing.

Cas withdrew and tugged off his shirt. Dean immediately followed after him, his eyes alight and eager as he took Cas in and admired something within him that Cas couldn’t recognise or even imagine. He traced the edges and soft curves of Castiel’s body, his calloused hands exploring him one more time.

Castiel hoped Dean was committing the touch of him to memory.

Dean kissed Cas’ collarbones and chest, his tongue darting out slick and hot against his skin. Cas breathed out Dean’s name, the whisper heavy with affection and untethered adoration. He reached for the buckle of Dean’s belt. By now he was able to effortlessly undo it and slip the belt free from Dean’s jeans without pause. He’d come accustomed to Dean’s belt and the way it snagged at the fraying seam of faux leather. He believed the metallic click of Dean’s buckle couldn’t be replicated by another; Cas knew the sound so well his ears could never be deceived. These were the small things his mind tucked away to brighten the darkest of his days.

And he knew he would miss it.

He would miss Dean’s belt and his favourite worn-out flannel shirt. He would miss the sound of his boots being kicked off by the door. He would miss the touch of his strong, capable hands. He would miss the heat of his kisses and the taste of pie on his lips. He would miss the soft tresses of his hair and the pale freckles on his skin. He would miss the deep notes of his voice and the harmony of his laughter. He would miss Dean’s sardonic jokes and whispered sweet-nothings. He would miss the contours of his stable body as he held him, his chest braced lovingly against his back.

Castiel would miss Dean. He would miss him more than he missed his grace. More than he would miss his life.

Cas unzipped Dean’s jeans and seamlessly eased his hand inside, palming him gently through his underwear. Dean was already semi-hard but noticeably stiffened further at Castiel’s touch. Cas worked his hand deeper and purposely cupped him and drew a moan from Dean’s lips. He took the sound into his own mouth, kissing him hungrily and taking his bottom lip teasingly between his teeth. Dean thrust forward slightly into Cas’ palm, desperate for more friction.

“I dare if you dare,” Cas breathed out, slipping his hand inside Dean’s underwear to stroke him.

Dean’s breath hitched again and he withdrew to meet Castiel’s eye. He quirked a curious brow, seeking some kind of clarification in his expression. Cas grinned suggestively and nodded his head toward the hallway. He slid his fingers to the head of Dean’s cock, slicking them with pre-come.

This would likely be their one and only chance to do what they had forbidden themselves from doing in the past. It was reckless and wrong and quite honestly inappropriate. But that’s what made it so fantastically wild and tempting. That’s what made it memorable. Cas took Dean’s hand in his and led him down the hall, pulling him in for more kisses as they neared Sam’s room. Outside his door, Cas pushed Dean against the wood and tugged at the material of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head. He took Dean’s nipple between his lips and sucked, licking the firm nub with the tip of his tongue, and nipping it with his teeth.

Dean groaned and tangled his fingers into Cas’ hair, tugging almost desperately at his dark locks. It felt so good to be desired. To be wanted. To be loved. Cas could have so easily melted into him then and there, but he stopped himself. He wanted to wait and savour every single moment. He felt Dean’s fingers knotted in his hair, his knuckles brushing against the roots, and the hunger in every sensual pull.  Cas cherished the sensation and offered it in return, standing upright and taking Dean’s hair into his own hand, guiding his head back to steal a fervent kiss.

Dean fumbled for the door handle, refusing to leave the kiss for even a moment. The door pushed open at his back and Dean stumbled inside, falling hard to the floor and dragging Cas down with him. They fell together in a startled, half-undressed heap, their lips red and swollen from frantic kisses. Cas planted one hand on the floor beside Dean and quickly propped himself up, gazing down at Dean with wide eyes. Dean stared up at him with equal shock, his brow raised and mouth hanging open in an unspoken “oh.” Then, he began to giggle, quiet at first but then suddenly bursting at the seams. Cas peered down at their feet and saw the strip of Saran wrap trapped around Dean’s ankles.

He began to giggle too and nuzzled his face down into Dean’s chest. He was so solid and warm, the scent of him enticing as he put his arms around Cas and held him close. Their laughter shook together in harmonious waves. Cas could feel every breath and every echo of Dean coursing through him—body pressed to body. He could feel the exhilarated breaths he took and the humming of his swift beating heart.

These fine details, too, Cas captured for what felt like the final time.

“I told you the payoff would be awesome,” Dean said finally.

“I don’t think this is what you had in mind though,” Cas teased, propping himself up again to meet Dean’s eye.

Dean’s eyes sparkled with misdeed. “Not quite,” he granted, “but still awesome.”

“Still awesome,” Cas agreed and leaned down to kiss him.

Dean’s hands clawed at Castiel’s bare back, trailing down the length of his spine and settling at the fine dimples above his ass. Cas ground down against him and felt the prod of his hard cock inside his unbuttoned jeans. Dean groaned and slid his hands inside Cas’ waistband, tempting the skin at the tops of either ass-cheek. Cas traced Dean’s bottom lip with his tongue, seeking the sweet relief of his mouth. Dean’s tongue was hot and slick, quenching his desperation as they effortlessly met in the middle.

Dean’s leg hooked around Castiel’s, allowing him to thrust up against him, impatient to feel skin against skin. Cas trailed his kisses across Dean’s jaw and gnawed gently on his earlobe. Dean shivered at the sensation of Cas’ warm breath at the nape of his neck and his leg clamped down harder, pinning Cas in place.

It was almost as if he knew Cas was going to leave, and he was doing everything in his power to make him stay—even if it meant holding him there on the floor of Sam’s bedroom forever.

“I think the bed might be more comfortable,” Cas breathed.

Dean grinned slyly and nudged Cas up into a sitting position. He sat up too and cradled Cas on his lap, slowly moving his hand up and down his back, purposely dipping into his waistband every now and then to keep him in suspense.

“I dare if you dare,” Dean said, playing off of Castiel’s words from before.

Cas eased himself up, gripping the waistband of Dean’s boxers all the while and easing him up too. They stood together eclipsed by the dark empty space of Sam’s room, the light of the hallway only just illuminating their edges. They fit perfectly together, Cas decided, picturing their shadow somewhere in the dark.

But he also knew Dean stood perfect on his own too.

Carving out the shadow of Castiel didn’t make the image any less beautiful.

Dean was a solid and infallible thing that hardships and loss couldn’t break. He would never be in eternal disrepair. Cas knew that for sure, and he was comforted by that thought. It reassured him to know that leaving could never tarnish Dean; he couldn’t leave a scar that would never heal.

Except for the scar of his handprint.

The mark he left behind when he saved Dean’s tormented soul from Hell… that mark would never fade.

It was the one and only scar Cas allowed, deciding that it would be the one physical reminder of what they once were. The memory that would survive when and if all others perished.

Castiel placed his hand over it now, completely taking what was his into his grasp and hoping like hell Dean would always look at it and smile. It had been so long since his angelic grace etched that scar into the fibres of Dean’s skin. They had gone from strangers to lovers, with all the time between coloured with agony and hope and heartbreak and trust and loss and love. It was beyond Castiel’s wildest imaginings, and he was thankful for it. There were so many regrets—mistakes he wished to rectify and decisions he wanted to unmake. They were the things that still haunted him. But, ultimately, they had brought him here. And he hoped that was enough.

Dean caressed Cas’ chin with his thumb, the touch freeing him from the clutches of his own thoughts. In the dim light of the hall, their eyes met; mystifying green and cloudless blue.

Castiel felt free.

For once, he didn’t feel guilty for taking what he wanted. He accepted Dean’s affection without doubting his right to it. If this was truly the last time, then he wanted it to be free of doubt and second-guessing. He wanted that so badly.

Dean guided Castiel to Sam’s bed and pushed him down onto it. He hooked his hands into the belt loop of Cas’ jeans and shimmied them off slowly, taking his time and making Cas wait. Little did Dean know, Cas wasn’t in any rush. Dean began to tug his own jeans off when Cas reached out and stopped him.

“I want to,” Cas insisted and moved Dean’s hands out of the way. It could be the last time he would ever get the chance to do this.

Dean gazed down at Cas with what seemed to be longing, watching Cas as he slowly pulled his jeans down his legs. Cas trailed his lips down Dean’s thigh as he went before sitting up again and nipping at Dean’s hipbone with his teeth. He hooked his fingers into the hem of Dean’s boxers and took them off too, tossing them aside with the discarded jeans. The hunter stood before him, naked and vulnerable and undeniably beautiful. Cas took in the sight; every curve, edge, and muscle. The solid body of a man raised to be a warrior—much the same way Cas had been. But, unlike Cas, there was a softness to even his sharpest of edges. It was the human part of him; the compassion, and the significant gift and curse of mortality.

Now that he was stuck inside—totally at one with—a human body, perhaps Castiel’s sharp edges were beginning to soften too. But, that wasn’t _him_. Not really. Inside, he felt timeless. Stagnant to change and growth. Forever an angel without its grace and wings.

There was nothing soft about that.

Dean seemed to recognise something shifting inside Cas. Something cold and desolate that threatened to rob him of his freedom once more. Dean sidled in closer and straddled Castiel’s lap, took his face into his hands, and leaned in for a delicate kiss.

Somehow, despite its tenderness, it was the most heated kiss yet.

“Stay with me, Cas,” Dean pleaded softly.

“Wh…what?” Cas breathed out. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. Did Dean know? Did he sense the oncoming storm that was bound to take Castiel away?

“I know how you get trapped in your own thoughts sometimes,” Dean explained, pausing to kiss him again. “You lose yourself in them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Dean shook his head, “it’s not your fault, Cas. None of it was your fault.”

“Some of it was,” Cas argued quietly.

“No.” Dean caressed Cas’ cheek with his thumb and kissed his forehead. “I don’t believe that. Sam doesn’t believe that—,”

“The angels do.”

“They don’t know the difference between right and wrong,” Dean said, “they don’t know the sacrifices you have made to do the right thing.”

Cas shook his head in disbelief, instinctively withdrawing from Dean. These words should have consoled him, but instead, they convinced him that Dean had misplaced his faith.

“You know what the difference is between you and them?” Dean asked.

Castiel didn’t say anything—there was nothing to say. Instead, he put his arms around Dean, rubbing his back with his fingers, and buried his face in the crook of his neck. Anything to hide the broken expression etched onto his features.

“You have a heart—such a big heart, Cas. That’s what makes you special.”

Dean so desperately wanted Castiel to hear it and believe him.

Cas heard it in the crack in Dean’s voice when he whispered his name. He heard the buried cries inside Dean that wanted to get out. And he knew that with time, those cries would mollify and then finally cease to exist. But only if he left and gave time a chance.

Castiel couldn’t expel whatever had broken inside him. He couldn’t repair the pieces; with or without Dean. As much as he wished they could, Dean’s kisses couldn’t heal him. Being loved, as wondrous and comforting as it was, wasn’t a cure-all. Their relationship wasn’t the foundation that kept Castiel afloat. Castiel’s depression had ultimately shaken that foundation to the core, and it was breaking apart piece by piece.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas said.

It wasn’t the first time Castiel had said it, but it was the first time Dean had heard him.

“I love you too, Cas.”

They kissed; sealing their admissions of love. Cas was happy he had the chance to say it. He could leave knowing Dean had the chance to say it too, assured the hunter wouldn’t live out the remainder of his days tormented at never having the chance.

Dean’s hands slipped down between his legs and graced Cas’ thighs, easing the fabric of his boxers out of the way. His breath hitched at Castiel’s lips, the air suddenly trapped inside his chest, almost afraid the moment would fade were he to exhale. Cas ran his fingers gently through Dean’s hair. What a glorious gift to have Dean; as wholly as circumstances would allow. Cas could curse many things, but never that.

“Do you need lubrication?” Cas breathed out.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Dean admitted, “is that stupid?”

Cas shook his head. “No.”

He understood. He felt the same way about leaving Dean, too.

Cas slicked his fingers with saliva and reached down, lubricating his erection before drawing Dean in even closer. Dean kissed him as he eased himself down, slowly taking Castiel in. He groaned into Cas’ mouth, the sound derived of equal parts pain and pleasure. Cas shivered; overcome by the tight warmth that encased him. He was with Dean—mind, body, and soul. And as Dean began to move, the thought of leaving tortured him. How could he possibly leave, knowing he would never come back? With Dean on top of him—loving him so completely—how could he bear to die without him?

Because he wanted Dean to live.

That was all that stopped him from giving in and crying that he would never leave. It was all that kept him from promising that it would be him and Dean until the end of time.

 Their kisses hushed their passionate moans, the sounds of each other’s names on their lips, heated curses, and declarations of commitment and unconditional love. They moved together, one rocking seamlessly into the other, finding solace in one another. And it was different not because of where they were like Cas had intended, instead, it was different because they had crossed that line between sex and making love. They’d said the words and made it so.

If this were truly the end, Cas was glad it happened like this. Just like this.

Dean tangled his fingers into Castiel’s hair, ensuring they were tied together in every way imaginable. Cas took Dean’s hands, entwining their fingers together. As Cas laid back, gazing longingly up at Dean, he felt the comfort of home at his back. The bunker finally felt like home, just as he was intending to leave it.

With a heavy heart, he pulled Dean down into a sensual kiss, releasing one of his hands to instead touch him all over. His back. His neck. His shoulder. His collarbone. His chest. His stomach. His hip. Cas touched Dean wherever he could reach, just because he could. He cherished every part of him. But, more than anything, he adored the soul that these parts housed. The soul he had saved. The soul that he loved.

“I’m close,” Dean breathed, trailing a hand down Castiel’s chest.

Cas took it and held it there. With his heart beating so hard and so fast, he was sure Dean could feel it. He didn’t close his eyes, despite the glorious pleasures rocking him to his core, and every urge that pushed him to arch his back, close his eyes, and lose himself. He wanted to watch Dean. To see him unravel above him.

Dean bit his lip, trying and failing to shush his pleasured cries. The sound escaped anyway—raw and breathy and vulnerable. And the sound erupted as he reached climax, the curses passing his lips like water through clasped hands. Cas watched him as he arched his back and raised his face to the cavernous ceiling, falling apart and loving every moment.

As Dean tightened around him, Cas felt that tightness in his lower stomach and testicles, and the shaking tension in his legs, and the shivers up the length of his spine. And with Dean’s hand still clasped in his, warm and solid against his naked chest, Cas came with him. Their moans melded together harmoniously. Dean’s seed was warm where it landed on his stomach. Cas lingered inside Dean, not yet daring to part from him.

Dean was the first to come down, and he near collapsed onto Castiel’s chest, out of breath and overheated. Cas took Dean into his arms, finally withdrawing so they could embrace one another as wholly as possible. Dean nuzzled his face down against Cas’ chest, kissing his skin and murmuring hushed words against his collarbones.

“I love you,” Cas said again. He needed to say it at least one more time.

“I love you too,” Dean breathed out, “I really freaking love you. Even when you don’t believe it, I do love you.”

Cas gently touched Dean’s jaw with his fingertips. Dean’s eyes flickered to his—again that mystifying green and cloudless blue.

“I believe it,” Cas said.

They kissed again. This time, it was final. It was delicate and irrefutable… but Dean didn’t know it was Cas saying goodbye.

 

Castiel covered Dean with the blanket, drawing the material up under his chin to keep him warm. It had to suffice for his protective and all-encompassing arms. Dean shifted in his sleep, nuzzling deeper into the blanket and the pillow beneath his head. Cas smiled sadly, taking just a minute longer to linger and watch Dean so at peace. Then, he kissed his cheek, stood up from the bed, and slipped carefully and quietly out the door. He closed it behind him softly and went to Dean’s room, getting dressed methodically in the hopes that a steady pace would keep him going. It would be so easy to just stop and sit there, convincing himself he would leave in a minute, or maybe two, or perhaps even more. He shrugged on his coat and slipped on his shoes, all the while trying to focus his mind.

He hadn’t heard the angels since that day out on the road. But, with the line of communication reawakened, Cas had little doubt he could reach out to them were he to try.

He placed two fingers to his temple and clenched his eyes shut tight, silently praying out into the void, searching for that one voice that had called out his name. At first, he heard nothing; no response of any kind. Aside from his own thoughts, his mind was empty. He focused harder, clenched his eyes tighter, and pressed his fingers firmer. With his jaw tensed so tightly, it began to ache and he had to distance himself from the pain. He was calling, loud as anything, inside his head… until he finally heard a singular voice answer his call.

“Castiel?” It said.

It was followed by a harsh piercing sound that pounded through his skull and made his eardrums feel as though they had immediately swollen. He bit hard on his tongue, forcing himself not to agonise aloud at the unbearable shrieks of the other angels.

“I’ll go to you,” Castiel prayed, “just tell me where.”

There was a long period of nothing but that high-pitched, torturous shrieking—that Cas suffered but ultimately endured—until the angel finally answered his prayer.

He knew where to go. But with a location in mind, there was nowhere else he wanted to be more than here.

Castiel brought his fist to his lips, swallowed his oncoming tears, and left the bunker much the same way he had arrived: fallen and fragmented, a once-been angel desperate to do penance.

But he never imagined such a big sacrifice, all in the name of doing the right thing.

He hoped the sacrifice was worth it. He hoped it was better this way—that he could correct his mistakes, and that Dean could find solace without him.

Castiel had to hope.

Hope was all he had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I know that was such a long time between chapters, and I do sincerely apologise to anyone who was waiting for an update. I hope the wait was worth it and that you enjoy reading this chapter more than I enjoyed writing it haha :P


	13. Rain

Cas pulled into the service station and peered out through the windshield. The wipers battled against the pouring rain, his view disrupted by the haze. He saw who he assumed was the store clerk through the window and two truckers loitering just outside, likely enjoying a cigarette or two as they waited for the rain to settle. He checked the time on his dash and began to fret over how long it had been since he left the bunker. The vehicle he took from the garage had sat idle there for so many years and no longer ran as smoothly as it probably once had. He had abandoned it some ways back at the side of the road, continuing on foot until he found a less conspicuous car he could steal.

Unfortunately, it was already low on fuel when he hotwired it and he hadn’t gotten far before the engine began to protest. The gauge was dipping precariously at empty and he huffed a quiet sigh of relief at having made it here rather than finding himself stuck in the middle of nowhere. What would he have done then? Walked the side of the road, hoping to hitchhike the remainder of the way? Or walked back the way he had come with his tail between his legs?

Cas couldn’t back out of this now. He hadn’t made this decision lightly. It wasn’t one to reconsider lightly either.

He eased the car forward alongside the gas pump and got out to fill up the tank. Misty rain dusted his skin and settled on his hair, making him shiver and desire the comfort of Dean’s warm bed. The rain had come and washed away the sludgy snow from the road, but the air was still crisp and it bit through his coat. Cas tried his best to ignore it and focused his attention on the task at hand. It did no good to dwell on what he couldn’t have; a warm bed and a roof over his head. He had no right to take the unfortunate weather as an omen—he knew exactly what it meant when he left.

Cas stood huddled beside the pump and watched as the numbers ticked higher and higher. He felt the cash in his pocket, fearing he likely didn’t have enough to afford a full tank. Despite knowing it probably wasn’t enough for the remainder of his journey, Cas removed the nozzle with the tank barely half full. He hadn’t thought to bring any food or drink with him since he hadn’t exactly anticipated all these delays. Now he realised he would eventually need to fill his grovelling stomach and satisfy his parched tongue. Again, he was reminded of how inconvenient it was to be human. It aggrieved him to suffer as so many humans did every day. And to know there was nothing he could do to help them when he couldn’t even help himself.    

Still, these physical troubles were nothing compared to the emotional burden he carried with him. He was all too aware of Dean’s absence. It felt unfamiliar and wrong to be seated behind the wheel, the faint buzz of the radio playing into the empty air. Cas was all too used to acting as a passenger, sitting at Dean’s side and listening to the roar of his cassette tapes.

He felt lonelier than he ever had before. And lonelier still when he realised he would die alone.

Castiel would fade into the abyss, solitary and lost. Whatever grasp that took his life would linger over him with menace and loathing. It wouldn’t be sweet company.

Perhaps, Cas realised, it may actually be better to die alone after all.

 Still, he wondered what would become of his soul once it perished. He considered, with trepidation, whether he would exist aimlessly in the veil, unable to move onward or backward. It seemed such a cruel fate, even for him. He knew he ought to die for his doings in life, but did he deserve to suffer in death as well? Castiel wished for his own pain to end too—somehow and someway. He wanted to die knowing he had saved those that he had wronged, and then to spend the remainder of his eternity with some sense of peace.

Whatever peace faith and God would allow him.

But that was the sacrifice he made to do penance for his mistakes, and to make the world that much safer for Sam and Dean to live in. What was his loneliness in the face of their pain? The angels suffered. Humanity suffered. Sam suffered… Dean suffered. Cas could—and would—die lonely if it alieved their suffering. Perhaps Sam and Dean would miss him for a time. They may think of his absence with dread at first; a quiet remorse. But it would pass. Cas knew it would. And when it did, they would be better off for it.

Cas leaned against the edge of the car with his palms pressed against the hood. He hung his head low and took a few broken breaths. His arms very barely shook; a mere unperceivable tremor, but a tremor all the same. Castiel was afraid. Very afraid. Afraid of what he must do, and that he may be too weak to do it. He was afraid of dying slow. He was afraid of what would become of him after.

And, mostly, he was afraid for Dean.

Sam would move on. Cas knew that for sure. And Dean would too, one day… but perhaps not for a very long time. Dean would carry that anger and remorse with him, never letting it go until time allowed it to fade. Castiel knew he had never been worthy of Dean’s love, but Dean had loved him anyway; there was no denying it. So there was no denying the agony it would cause him. Castiel had never intended to hurt him but had often hurt him anyway. No apology—no matter the sincerity and no matter the number of times it was said—was ever enough to convince Cas of Dean’s forgiveness. He had hurt him so many times and in so many ways, but this was the worst way of all.

Castiel was sorry.

As he trudged through the rain between the cover over his car and the safety of the gas station, every part of him cried to turn back. He could feel it in the weakness of his legs and the hollowness of his stomach and the weight in his chest and the burning behind his eyes. But he kept going. He kept going all the way up to the cashier and fumbled with his money to pay.

“Having a good day today, sir?” the young clerk asked, not actually committed to getting an answer.

“No,” Castiel said. He found it impossible to lie. A falsehood, even as simple as a yes, was too much for him to bear.

The cashier hesitated, minutely dumbstruck for a moment. He awkwardly turned to collect Cas’ change from the drawer. “It is bad weather today,” he granted eventually.

“A bit of bad everything,” Cas corrected.

“Uh… right… They reckon the rain’s just gonna to get heavier as the week goes on.”

Castiel scoffed quietly, mostly to himself. “Seems fitting.”

The cashier nodded reluctantly, clearly not wishing to delve any deeper into Cas’ current dark state of mind. He peered uncomfortably out the window and back at Castiel again, as if trying to find yet another weather-related comment to offer in place of actual conversation.

Cas followed his train of sight and considered the distance he had yet to travel—however far that was. He wasn’t entirely sure. The angel had given him a location, but without wings, it was hard to figure exactly where that location was and how to get there via road.

“Do you have any maps of the area?” Cas asked.  

“Absolutely,” the cashier responded, relieved. These were far easier words to share. He turned his back and slipped a map out of the magazine rack behind him and opened it up onto the counter. “Where're you heading?”

“Indiana,” Cas said and peered at the map. Miraculously, it looked as though he was on the right track.

“Anywhere specific?”

“Richmond. I don’t know anything more specific than that at this time,” Castiel explained, somewhat weary, “but I think I’ll cope once I get that far.”

The cashier grabbed out a pen and quickly drew across the map which roads Cas needed to take. “Still have a while to go yet. And the roads are still quite slick…”

“I should take caution. I understand,” Cas nodded, “I appreciate your help and concern.”

“Not a problem, sir,” the cashier said, sighing lightly in relief that the exchange was coming to an end. “I hope the rest of your day is better.”

“That’s unlikely. But thank you.” Castiel smiled sadly. He folded the map and tucked it into his coat pocket before taking his leave.

The rain had indeed gotten heavier, just within those few minutes he was indoors. By the time he made it the short distance back to his car, his hair was almost completely soaked and the outer layer of his coat was dense. When he got into the car and retrieved the map, the edges were very barely water damaged, but otherwise no worse for wear. He didn’t dare turn on the heater just in case it used up gas the car didn’t have to waste. It was an uncertainty. Yet another human creation he didn’t understand. Were it to suddenly stop in the middle of nowhere, Cas had no hope of doing any kind of repair, and would instead be reduced to travelling by foot.

But Dean would know what to do.

Were he there.

Were he there, Dean would likely teasingly mock Castiel’s complete lack of knowledge about cars. But then he would gladly try to explain them to him. Cas pictured Dean standing at his side, bending over the engine and pointing out all the different mechanics—as if Cas could ever make sense of it. Dean would convince Cas to check the oil, and then chuckle as he somehow miraculously got a smear of it on his cheek. Dean would smile and wipe the stain from Castiel’s face, and praise him for his efforts. And then Cas would kiss him. Kiss him because he was so patient and eager to envelop Cas into his life. Kiss him because he was sweet and beautiful and curved just perfectly into Castiel’s side.

Kiss him because he loved him more than he had ever loved anything.

Cas hadn’t been gone that long, but the permanence of his departure made the hours feel centuries longer. And it killed him to sit behind the wheel of that car with questions on his tongue he could never ask and knew Dean could answer. Like with most things in life, Dean was the first person Cas ever wanted to turn to. And right now he couldn’t. He never would again.

Cas knew that of all reasons to leave, this was the best one. But that didn’t lessen the resentment.  At himself, but at the angels as well. It was so easy to look back now and say ‘if only’. To reflect on the past and see where everything went wrong, time and time again. To see what should have been done instead. What decisions should have been made and which actions should have been halted. 

But what good did it do? What lesson did it teach if the consequences were too dire to ever be at a risk of repeating? The angels had fallen and Castiel’s efforts to return them to Heaven may very well be fruitless. There was nothing he could do to make them fall a second time. There was no lesson, only regret.

Cas propped the map on the dash and followed the cashier’s scribbled directions. It was very open road with signs few and far between. Nevertheless, Cas now felt confident he was going the right way, if not slowly to avoid sliding off the road. He really had exchanged one unreliable car for another—the former poorly aged by time and neglect, and the latter by immense mishandling. Cas could feel the balding tires slip on the wet surface, threatening to tailspin at any given moment. It was yet another fear he had to live with. But at least it helped keep his mind occupied elsewhere. He couldn’t very well worry about Dean when he was concerned about dying encased in metal and glass before giving his dues.

Dean may one day forgive Cas for dying for the angels, but never if he died for nothing.

 

* * *

 

The sun was setting. The car was running on empty and the sun was setting and Cas still had some length to go. Time had absolutely escaped him, much sooner than he had anticipated. The confusion and mechanical trouble had set him back some hours. He could only hope the angel was patient. Not that he had heard any complaint to suggest otherwise. In fact, everything had been dead silent. Cas wondered if the line had closed off again, but didn’t dare attempt praying to test it yet. It was somehow exhausting to try. It was debilitating, almost. Because the response came so loud and the static around that one voice was almost more than he could withstand. Angel voices weren’t meant for human ears, so it near deafened him to listen.

He would have to try again eventually, though. Once he made it to Richmond he had no choice but to attempt reopening that line of communication in order to be given a more specific address. That fact was the only thing that held him from continuing onward with haste. Now that he was as close as he was, a delay didn’t seem such an unfortunate thing—that would be if it weren’t for the risk of running out of gas. He was spending a concerning amount of time now with his foot lifted off the accelerator, just allowing the car to roll. It felt like a terrifying sacrifice of control, especially as the rain hadn’t dissipated, only lessened.

It truly was ominous weather. Either lingering drearily overheard or battering him in sudden waves. There didn’t seem to be an in-between. Castiel tried to ignore the sensations of dread it evoked, but the thought stayed with him nonetheless. And he began to wonder if Dean felt it too, wherever he was now.

Would he still be in the bunker?

Cas liked to think so, but he knew it not to be true. It wasn’t like Dean to sit idle when something was amiss or if someone he loved was in danger. Cas had done what he could to avoid leaving a trail, for the most part. He had abandoned the first car far sooner than he had anticipated but had planned to switch vehicles at some point anyway. And he had left his phone on his bedside table, giving Dean no easy way to track him. And no way to call him and attempt to talk him out of it. Were he to hear Dean beg, there was no way Cas couldn’t give in. Especially since he so severely wanted to already.

He could imagine that gruff declaration of loving words. The sheer desperation of them. Even the simplistic nature of his words and the sharp edge to his voice. It wasn’t a common thing to see Dean Winchester beg. So when he did, there was no denying him. Cas, of course, wished that had always been the case. There were times when Dean had begged Cas to discontinue the path he was on, and he had refused to yield. Every time, Cas should have listened.

But this was too important to be one of those times.

Dean’s rationality would be far too wavered by his emotional commitment to Cas. He couldn’t see any clearer than Castiel could. It seemed that love had a way of blurring everything.

As did the rain, so it seemed. As the rain once again picked up, Castiel couldn’t make out any of the road signs. He cast his eyes down to the map and up again, fairly sure he hadn’t drifted in the wrong direction. Were he to make it to Richmond in the next hour or so, he would have to depend almost entirely on the change of scenery; the sudden development of buildings and civilians. Until then the exact distance was a guessing game.

With that, his mind was carried away and freed momentarily from the onset of homesickness. Instead, he began to wonder whether he ought to stop for the night. Not only was the sun beginning to set, but whatever light that remained was being suffocated by the dense storm clouds overhead. Already, Castiel was being cast into the dark. It was a dangerous thing to drive in these wet conditions, particularly at night with the headlights no more reliable than the rest of the wreck of a car. He hadn’t passed another car for the longest time so the risk of an accident was lessened some, but not enough to be of any comfort to him.

With a sullen sigh, Cas glared through the sheet of rain and pulled over to the side of the road. The rocky terrain promised not to bury the tires in mud and the constant battering on the roof of the car convinced him to crawl into the backseat. He simply didn’t want to drive in this any longer.

Laying back, he tilted his head to the side and stared out the grey windshield. The windows around him had fogged and all that could be heard was the rain against metal and the heavy whoosh of the wind just outside. Cas was completely encased by the wretched solitude. He closed his eyes and curled up tightly into a ball, urging the back of the seat to somehow act as a substitute for Dean’s robust chest. But it was too solid and cold against his back. The faux leather didn’t mimic soft, warm skin. Nothing about it held him the way Dean did. His own arms against his chest couldn’t suffice for Dean’s protective embrace.

Cas knew that his sleep tonight would be perturbed by more horrific nightmares. For the first time in a long time, he would have to endure them alone. He would wake sweating and breathless, almost shivering as the sweat instantly cooled against his skin and his mind struggled to free itself from sleep. And he would be alone. Alone and curled up on a strange backseat with peeling faux leather sticking to his clothes. Dean wouldn’t be there to comfort him and kiss him and hold him. Dean wouldn’t be there to make him laugh—the one person who could make such a humourless world light up with laughter.

Dean hadn’t been able to make Castiel better. He hadn’t been able to cure him. But, god, if he didn’t make living seem bearable; actually even worth it sometimes.

Cas feared that he may very well wake to find himself incapable of climbing off that car seat. He could try and try and try and still find himself laying in that same position hours later, watching the sunset all over again. And Dean wouldn’t be there to help him sit up, to brush back his hair, and to soften the dread that existing sometimes brought with it. Cas would have to somehow do that entirely on his own. He would have to take this mission he gave to himself and use it as the reason to get up in the morning.

He had to take it and make it enough to carry him. Because it was up to him to help the angels back home. To help Dean have a long and happy life—even if that meant Cas was no longer a part of it.

Cas sat up just long enough to remove his still somewhat damp coat and then draped it over himself. Despite wearing it for the day, and despite it traversing through the rain, the material still smelt like Dean. Cas pulled it up under his chin and nestled into it, just breathing in the scent. It wasn’t Dean, but it was just enough of him to lure Cas to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Instead of nightmares, he simply dreamt of Dean and awoke missing him. But he was somehow capable of climbing back into the driver’s seat.

He drove onward toward the rising sun, leaving the past storm clouds behind him.

Still, he suspected new ones were waiting for him just over the horizon.

They wouldn’t have to wait very long.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this brief chapter. Do you think Cas will be able to help the angels? Or should he have stayed with Dean? Until next time! xoxo


	14. Last Meal

The car had died. Cas tried hotwiring it again but the engine simply reverberated in protest. Despite lacking any confidence with the mechanics of a car, Cas knew how to hotwire them. Dean had gone out of his way to teach him once, stating that _“if worse comes to worst, you’ll need a way to get back home.”_ He had been so insistent and articulate in his lesson, head down and hands kept busy, that Cas couldn’t even pretend to lose interest. At first, it had been distracting just to see Dean at work—watching the intense concentration on his face and the noticeably built poise in his body. But then Dean had suddenly clasped his shoulder with one hand and gave it a tight squeeze. Cas met his eyes and immediately surrendered to the desperate plea inside them.

“This is important, Cas,” Dean had said softly, “whatever happens… whatever shit goes down… you come home to me. Understand?”

Castiel had nodded solemnly and forced himself to swallow against the lump in his throat. “I understand.”

He’d made a point to pay attention from then on, and had actually remembered Dean’s instructions. He had practiced multiple times from that day on, ensuring he knew how to do it if the situation ever called for it. And it was calling for it now. If only it were to get him safely home and back to Dean.

But this? This was important too.

Cas clambered out of the car and retrieved his coat from the backseat before continuing onward by foot. The rain had stopped momentarily, the clouds still lingering overhead in wait. He had driven toward the beckoning sun but had rightly predicted that the storm would follow him. He wanted to shake off the ominous feeling but couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. It stayed with him in his bones and weighed on him. It was the guilt of wanting to do what was easy instead of what was right. Of wanting to go home and find a way to exist without remorse rather than sacrifice everything to correct his wrongdoings. Cas knew he had to stop casting these doubts onto the world around him, creating signs where they didn’t truly exist. It was wrong to take the foreboding weather or the mechanical trouble or the dread in his gut and use them as an excuse to turn back. They meant nothing. They dictated nothing. His actions were solely his own and the heavy cost still couldn’t suffice for what he owed.

Cas grudgingly zipped up his coat and nestled his chin into the flipped up collar. The wind bit at him through every single layer and eventually slowed him into a shivering mass. By now he was weak with hunger and thirst, the pangs of his stomach and the cracks in his lips burdening him with human needs that demanded to be met. With a numb hand, he felt for the remaining cash in his pocket and decided to use it on what he figured would likely be his last meal. He ducked around the next two blocks before stepping into a quiet coffee shop. It was mostly empty this time of morning. Most of the civilians had already come and gone on their way to work. There were plenty of seats to choose from and so he sat in the furthest corner of the room, away from the window where he was sure the cold would seep through the glass. He rubbed his chilled hands together and watched as a waitress came to his table.

“Did you need to see a menu, hon?” she asked.

“No, I think I’m good,” Cas said, “can I just get a coffee—milk and two sugars—and a PB&J?”

“Oh, we don’t actually serve PB&Js,” she murmured in apology.

Castiel suspected as much but had still felt compelled to ask. It was the only thing he could think of. It was the only thing he wanted before… before whatever is going to happen, happens. It was what Dean made him the first day he arrived at the bunker a weak and defeated human being. It was what Dean made him every subsequent day when every other dish went by untouched. It was what Dean prepared with care, cutting it diagonally into two triangles, with just the right amount of both peanut butter and jelly. The coffee never went well with it, but it was all that Cas ever felt compelled to drink. When all else had fallen apart, Cas had these things to comfort him. In many ways, they kept him alive.

“That’s okay,” he accepted quietly.

The waitress looked down on him in pity, her brow furrowing with concern. She tapped the side of her notepad with her pen in thought and peered back towards the kitchen.

“I’ll see what I can do. Okay, hon?”

She was too kind and too generous. Cas wanted to hold her and weep.

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t enough, but he felt it was likely inappropriate to act on his wishes. There was only so much of his pathetic-ness she could take before it became overbearing. He knew better than to burden a stranger with more than they cared to handle. He had already made the gas station clerk uncomfortable, there was no need to do the same to another innocent soul who deserved better.

She nodded and took her leave to the kitchen. He was alone. The few other patrons sat with their heads cast over books or laptop screens, minding their own business. He watched them, hoping their presence would lull him into a false sense of ease. _‘I’m not alone,’_ he kept telling himself.

 _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_ _‘I’m not alone.’_

Cas fiddled with the hem of Dean’s coat. He gazed out the window to the empty street.

_‘I’m alone.’_

He realised that whatever thing that stole his light had taken so much more. It was such an isolating thing. He knew better than most anyone that the universe was infinite and that life prevailed throughout this world that he had come to love. But, somehow, he was still alone in it. All that he knew to be true, and all that he had seen with his own eyes, simply didn’t exist inside him anymore. He could see and hear it and touch it, but he remained on the outside looking in. He was numb to it. He was as much a part of it as he was apart from it, and he still didn’t understand how that could be.

He thought that maybe Dean would know.

Dean somehow always had an answer. Even if it wasn’t one he wished to say or Cas wished to hear.

Castiel felt that all too familiar stinging in his eyes and he wiped furiously at the blooming tears before they could fall. There was no time for them. They didn’t have a place here. Forcing them away was easier said than done though as he wiped under his eyes again and blinked a few times too fast. They burned his lash line and blurred his vision, taunting him with what couldn’t fall but could still break him. He did what he could to ignore them and pulled a thread free from his jacket, pulling it and pulling it and wrapping it around and around his finger. The tip of his index finger began to go pale, and then red, and then purple as he pulled, wrapped and tightened. He watched the colours change and focused at the pulsing beneath his skin before the feeling faded into nothing.

Only when the waitress returned to the table did he unwind the thread and leave it sitting on his knee. His finger flooded with red as the blood coursed back through his flesh. He watched the waitress set down his coffee and sandwich. She placed a consoling hand on his shoulder briefly before turning and leaving him to his last meal. He watched her go. When he picked up his spoon, his finger had already resumed its natural colouring.

It all seemed so simple. As if nothing was permanent. That time could heal everything. Almost as if everything could somehow go back to how they were—before the thread had strangled his finger; before the angels had fallen.

But he knew it not to be true. He stirred his coffee. His finger didn’t feel the same anymore.

He left his coffee to cool and bit into his PB&J. The waitress had meant well, but they had used strawberry jelly instead of grape. The taste lingered on his tongue and made his uneasy stomach churn. But he bit into it again and again until it was half gone. He blew gently onto his coffee and took a cautious sip. There was no sugar—not a single grain.

It wasn’t the way Dean made it. It wasn’t right. And it took everything he had not to add it to the growing list of omens he had tried but failed, to reject. He continued eating with disdain, each bite smaller and each chew slower as the future—or the end thereof—dawned on him again.

With the last of his appetite lost, Cas set down the remainder of his sandwich and left the last mouthful of bitter coffee in the bottom of his mug. He felt around his pocket and set the money he owed on the table with the rest as a decent tip for his waitress. Standing up, he felt eyes on him. He peered up at the counter and saw a man watching him. He had his chin nestled into a worn scarf, the collar of his scruffy coat turned up. Cas just barely saw the greying stubble on his chin, the colour matching the salt and pepper hair he had buzzed close to the scalp. As he turned and met Castiel’s eye, his jacket moved to reveal the bulge of a gun in his waistband. Cas tensed. The man clenched his jaw and appraised Cas carefully, looking head to foot and back up again before becoming distracted as the waitress returned with his coffee in a takeaway cup. He thanked her and handed over a few coins, hesitating on the spot before leaving.

Castiel didn’t relax straight away. Instead, he remained leaning with his palm pressed flat to the table, his elbow threatening to collapse from under him.

Sam and Dean always walked around armed, no matter where they went. They went to gas stations and diners and pizza places with a gun in their belt. For Castiel, this had become commonplace. If any possible threat approached, both boys pulled out their guns and pointed with perfect aim. It happened so often Cas no longer so much as blinked. For them, it was a precaution. A valid safety requirement that had boded well for them thus far. So perhaps it wasn’t unusual for other civilians to carry weapons on them also. In fact, Castiel could recall him and the Winchesters having guns pulled on them numerous times. He no longer blinked at this either, even with the barrel pointed at his head. He couldn’t discern when it was appropriate to worry.

In any case, the gun-owner had conducted his purchase without an act of violence, paying for and taking his beverage without trouble. He had been perfectly polite to the waitress who had seemed unperturbed by his appearance—perhaps he was even a regular customer she knew by face if not by name.

Still, Castiel was uneasy.

He finally pushed himself away from the table and opened the door, peering out onto the street before daring to step outside. The street was empty again aside from the one or two cars that passed him as he walked further up the road. The man was gone. Cas looked down every side street and alleyway without a sign of him. He was comforted some. He could almost believe that nothing was actually amiss and that it was happenstance that he saw this rough-looking man armed with a concealed handgun. Who had looked at him as if he _knew_ him. That was the part Cas couldn’t dismiss. The man had stared so intensely, his eyes wandering so thoroughly, that it had to be more than coincidence.

… Didn’t it?

Dean had told him numerous times that strangers had a habit of staring at Castiel. _‘For being such a strange, little guy,’_ he used to say. One day changing it to _‘You’re easy on the eyes.’_ Cas never noticed unless Dean pointed it out. It wasn’t in his nature to notice such things. He used to feel the eye of a predator on him—a natural instinct that came with being a warrior of Heaven. But an interested gaze? Never.

But he was human now. His angelic instincts had faded into the easily corruptible ones of a human. Meaning he never felt anyone’s gaze—menacing, flirtatious, or otherwise. He had no other choice than to depend on his human gut that insisted he walk faster. The fight or flight concept that Sam had told him about. It was the rapid beating of his heart and the heat in his face and the quick, short breaths in and out of his lungs. Castiel was afraid. On edge. His fists clenched in preparation to fight, but his feet quickened beneath him in preparation to take flight. He hadn’t yet become accustomed to this sensation and couldn’t tell anyone that were to ask what his response would be. He figured there would come a time for him to find out.

He looked back over his shoulder and saw nothing but the way he had come. Listening with his unreliable human ears, he heard the wind, and cars in the distance, and the sound of his shoes on the pavement. He couldn’t hear beyond that no matter how hard he tried. Everything was a distraction. A mask for any lurking danger. He couldn’t trust himself to know what could happen or when. He could only keep going and hope nothing untoward kept him from his mission.

Thinking of it, Castiel thought it may be time to pray. There was no good in delaying any longer. And with his whole body on edge, the threat of a gun-toting man playing at his mind, Cas thought that the presence of an angel may be the best thing for him. They had called to him in desperation. They longed for saviour. Castiel was offering all he had to save them, and so he trusted that they wouldn’t kill him—not yet. He was better off with the angel than alone out here, still paranoid he was in trouble.

Time felt like it was slipping away from him. He could only think to grasp at its strings and pull.

Ducking into an alleyway, Castiel knelt behind some dumpsters, hopefully concealing himself from any watchful eyes. He heard no footsteps after his halted, and so he remained there and allowed himself to breathe slower and deeper. He had to concentrate if he hoped to make contact with the angel. It hadn’t gotten any easier since that first day, and he suspected it hadn’t since he left the bunker. He was already drained, but he had to ready himself to be drained even more. He knew the consequences, but also that the needs outweighed them. Cas had to suffer the pain if he ever wished to help his brothers and sisters. It certainly seemed a fair punishment for what he had done. He didn’t deserve for it to come easily to him.

Castiel held his head in his hands, burrowing down into his knees with his back arching against the wall. He closed his eyes. Concentrating with everything he had, Cas prayed to the angels, just hoping the right one could hear him. Having heard nothing since he had left the bunker, he had feared the worst. Maybe he had completely lost the ability to be a graceless angel. Perhaps he had subconsciously closed himself off from them, knowing how deeply they resented him. Or the angels may have changed their minds. What good was he to them now?

Probably no good to them at all.

He kept trying—praying long and loud. Pain prodded menacingly behind his tightly clenched eyes. His jaw ached in protest as his teeth ground together. It was painstaking. And he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. He paused for a brief moment, taking a sharp breath he forgot he had been holding. His eyes flooded with light and he blinked against it, casting his sight back into the dark.

He kept trying, minutes trickling by without any hope or success. Eventually, time lost all meaning. He suspected he may have been crouched there for an hour. At least that’s what the cramping in his legs suggested. But he refused to adjust. He blamed himself, sure now that this failure was entirely his doing. He gave up for air too quickly, he unclenched his jaw too frequently; he eased his pain when he ought to suffer.

That’s what they probably wanted—for him to hurt.

As an hour passed into two, his focus was struck with images that he hadn’t procured on his own. They were put there, burning into his retinas. Since losing his grace, his dwindling communication with the angels had contained nothing but words. He heard their voices, often screaming and agonising over broken wings. Over time this had faded into nothing, until recently with the angel calling his name. Cas had been reduced to the bare minimum as if a trace of grace had granted him those few months of being something… more.

But now he could see what the angel wanted him to see as if he were looking through their eyes. He saw angels falling. He saw wings burning as they hit the atmosphere, feathers tearing away from their roots and dusting like a cloud of ash on the world below. He saw angels lying dead with the skeletal remains of what had once resembled wings as a shrivelled shadow at their back. He saw the angels suffering in a world they didn’t know or understand.

Castiel saw what he had done. His own imagination hadn’t done the truth justice. This was far worse than he could have ever envisaged, and he had done nothing but torment himself with all kinds of horrors. Cas had let himself off easy. He had softened the truth. To protect himself. To live a lie. To somehow forgive his moments of happiness. To justify loving Dean and being loved in return.

Cas screamed into the open air as the images pulled at his nerves and burned electric through his veins. Every muscle felt weighted by a thousand tonnes of stone. His blood surged boiling. His hands clasped for safety and pulled and pulled and pulled. He was trying to tread water like it was cement. Castiel was sinking. Down and down into an escapable void that even his worst regrets begged to be free from. His remorse and his self-hatred—the absolute repulsion he felt each time he passed a mirror—cried mercy. This was beyond what he could survive.

He cried to live… or to die quickly.

The images abruptly disappeared—ripped out. He saw nothing but the memory of them now. He saw them only in retrospect. The unbearable torture faded into sufferable pain. He could survive this… just very barely. The black void of his mind filled with an old building worn down almost to the stumps. The roof had caved in on one side, the broken wall threatening to collapse beneath the weight of metal and shingles. There were no windows left in their frames, instead just the rotting plywood that had been nailed up however many years prior. The door, he noticed, had been forcefully pushed back into place with a new bolt drilled to keep it tightly sealed. It was newly occupied. And he knew that was where he was supposed to go… this was the angel he was supposed to meet.

The image drifted out onto the street, casting over its location once before his mind was returned to him.

Castiel was alone in his head once more.

His legs fell out from under him and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the icy, damp cement. His hands came away with tufts of his hair clamped beneath tense fingers. Only now could he feel the burning across his scalp where he had pulled the hair from their follicles. Castiel breathed. The hair got caught in a soft gust of wind and fluttered down the alleyway. He spat blood. The cut in his mouth from that day on the road had reopened with one bite from his teeth. His tongue was slick with it. The metallic tang was now familiar to him.

He forced himself to stand and fought the objection of his tired body. He knew where to go and knew without a doubt that time was against him. The angels needed him and they weren’t willing to wait any longer.

They couldn’t afford to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, so that was... a wait. Again, I apologise. In any case, I thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you like, you can follow me on Tumblr where I usually try to post whenever I upload a new chapter. http://gemminycricket4.tumblr.com/


	15. Last Words

By the time Cas made it to the abandoned building by foot, his clothes were entirely soaked through. He stood shivering at the door with his arms wrapped tight across his chest, clasping the material of his heavy coat in either hand. The rain had picked up some ways back, drenching him within seconds. By now his skin was a few shades paler than normal. The wind had battled him all the way here, making the already sullen journey all the more perilous. He had barely been able to see the road ahead of him, let alone this desolate building surrounded by overgrowth.

Cas was as relieved to be here as he was afraid. He hesitated to knock on the door. He knew he should but still dreaded what he would find inside. Somehow, despite it all, he still found himself delaying the inevitable. Time did not favour him or the angels. The longer he waited the more the world was cast into chaos. He knew this. Yet, his untethered human emotions made it harder to act on instruction or wisdom alone. His once unwavering commitment and fearlessness had vanished with his stolen grace.

Castiel was no angel. Not anymore. He was a scared human being. He often found himself wanting to die—a persistent thought he could never fully dispel or banish for good—but he was afraid of how it would feel. That it may hurt. That he would feel the kind of pain he had arguably suffered enough of already. Despite knowing it was the least that he deserved, he couldn’t help but hope for a peaceful end. It was the most he could ask for. And he was ready to ask it if need be… if that was what the angel truly wanted.

He just had to hope that they’d show him mercy. If not some forgiveness.

Castiel finally knocked on the door with a trembling fist. He didn’t have to wait long before he heard the bolt turn and the squeal of the heavy metal door as it opened. A woman peered through the small opening, her hazel eyes glistening with mistrust and caution. But she seemed to recognise him as she opened the door wider and stepped aside. Cas carefully moved inside. She sidled around him, appraising him from all angles before she stood before him. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say to truly express his remorse and his guilt. No words to explain what had happened. To offer help in any way she could possibly need it.

And she said nothing.

Castiel couldn’t recognise her. His eyes could no longer see beyond the vessel, and nothing about the way she carried herself gave him any hints to her identity. Her mousey brown hair hung down just past her shoulders, partially concealing her face. The vessel adorned a simple white t-shirt and an oversized khaki coat, matched with a pair of pale blue jeans and black ankle boots. The angel hadn’t wasted their energy on keeping up appearances. The shirt was torn at the hem and the shoes were slick with layers of drying mud. Her grace was depleted—weakened still after all this time from the fall. There was no power to spare on mundanities. Cas dipped his head in shame.

“You actually came…” she said finally, almost in awe.

“Of course,” Cas said quickly, “I want to help… I want to do whatever I can to make this right.”

“How?”

“I uhh… I don’t—,”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” she asked. She stepped closer, eyes locked with eyes.

“No! This—this was _never_ my intention. Metatron tricked me. I was trying to close the gates of Heaven and he was trying to cast the angels out of it… and he succeeded.”

The angel scoffed and diverted her gaze.

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Who are you?”

She looked back at him again. “Sophia. Not that my name means much to you. We never met in Heaven. Not even once. Not when you were a trusted soldier or an admired leader… or a genocidal dictator.”

Castiel winced and took two instinctual steps backward. His shoulders tensed and he shrunk in on himself, making himself small. There was so much he had to repent for. Perhaps more that could be covered in a lifetime. Maybe he never could.

“I know who you are, Sophia. Our brothers and sisters only ever spoke highly of you… they said you were a good soldier. They said you were kind.”

“You’re brave to say ‘ _our_ brothers and sisters’. Or perhaps foolish,” she said plainly.

“We are our Father’s creations—all of us. Even after all the horrendous things I have done… things I can never atone for… I haven’t forgotten that.”

Sophia crossed her arms and turned her back once more, standing stiff and straight—clearly uncomfortable in a human’s skin. Cas reached out to touch her shoulder but quickly withdrew his hand. He knew it wouldn’t be wise to touch her. His touch wouldn’t be a comfort. She would likely shudder beneath his hand or pull away in disgust. And Cas wouldn’t blame her.

“Sophia. Please. I am begging for a chance to help you—to help all of you. I never meant for any of this. I never wanted to hurt anyone—”

“But you did!” she interjected, her tone sharp and broken.

“I know.”

“You have shamed us. Defiled us. Slaughtered us. And then cast the last of us from our home. There is no forgiveness after that, Castiel.”

“I know that too,” Castiel whispered, “I am not asking for forgiveness… just the chance to right as many wrongs as I can.”

Sophia hesitated. Castiel could see her shoulders soften. Her arms fell away from her chest and hung limply at her sides. She had called to him, lost and confused and frightened. A part of her had to believe that he could help her. A part of her had to know that he would want to. She wouldn’t have called otherwise… unless… unless help was never on her mind. Unless only revenge was.

“I think you really mean that, Castiel,” she said sadly.

“I do,” he assured her.

The door closed. The bolt turned. Cas knew. The bolt hadn’t been put there to keep people out. It was put there to keep people in—to keep him in. In his desperation to do penance, he had ignored every sign that pointed to his demise. Or he had run knowingly into it. He wasn’t surprised to find himself trapped here with two more angels at his back, both with angel blades in hand. And he wasn’t as scared as he was before. It was almost a relief to know where he stood and to finally be facing his fate. He understood, and he forgave them.

Inside, he was sorry. He wanted Dean to know he was sorry.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, nodding to Sophia.

She looked at him, almost in pity. The angels had said that she was kind, and they were right. Cas could see that in her. He could see the doubt and apology in her eyes as she second-guessed what was to come. She wasn’t one for torture or needless slaughter. She had only wanted to do right by her siblings, and acted out of fear, overcome by broken wings and confusion.

The angels that had bolted the door took Cas by either arm, bracing him tightly before dragging him to the wall furthest from the door. His heels caught on broken cobblestone, slowing them down. The broken stone rattled and kicked up the loose dirt beneath them. He listened to them and watched the faint dust clouds blossoming in his wake. It could be worse, he decided. There was a finality to it he couldn’t shake, knowing the flat soles of his feet would never again stand upright on those very same stones. These last steps were pulled from his tired, dead weight. Nothing had ever felt so fitting.

They chained both his wrists above his head and the cuffs cut into his skin, clasped so tight he could feel the pulsating of his depleted circulation. He opened his mouth to speak—to ask for a quick death—when he was struck hard across the face. His cheek ran hot, stinging.

“I once trusted you, Castiel,” another angel said, “I trusted your judgement and your leadership, even as you led us astray. I believed you would be our saviour… but I was wrong.”

“I have made mistakes,” Castiel said. “I never meant for this. For any of this.”

“Then why did you disappear? Where were you when we fell?”

A hand clasped around his throat and squeezed tight. Cas fought for air. His hands pulled against the cuffs, rattling the chains. The sound echoed throughout the room, encasing them in it. His body was fighting of its own accord, his lungs contracting and mouth opening. His legs kicked and his feet scuffed the floor. But, inside, he had already given up. There was no real fight left in him. He didn’t expect to get out of this alive. And maybe he didn’t really want to.

And yet… Cas wanted to see Dean one last time.

The second angel knelt down and held an angel blade to Castiel’s face, slicing down his cheek. The blood ran hot down his cheek and some pooled in the corner of his lips. With his mouth still open and gasping for air, his lip stained red and he could taste the faint tang of metal. His throat ached. The kicking of his feet slowed. Everything was turning dark as his eyes rolled back into his skull.

And then, the hand released him. His head fell back and hit the wall hard and he wretched on his first breath. Cas had lost all feeling in his hands and the sensation threatened to seep into his arms next. He was dying, Cas thought, piece by piece. Just the way they wanted it. He drew his knees up to his chest and coughed into them, spit and blood coating his lips and splattering the filthy denim of his jeans. His head lolled onto his shoulder, smearing the blood onto of his shirt and covering half of his face.

“Where were you when we fell?” The angel asked again.

Castiel couldn’t answer. His voice was gone, cast away into illegible, choked whimpers. They wouldn’t like what he had to say. He had run to the Winchesters and hidden in the safety they provided, allowing them to embrace him with forgiving and protective arms. He had hidden in the bunker, living something that at least resembled a life whilst the world he’d once known fell to pieces just outside. Cas had done nothing to help until now. He hadn’t even tried.

The blade tore through the flesh of his other cheek, starting just beneath his eye and ending at his jawline. The blood dripped down his neck and travelled the length of his collarbone. It wasn’t the worst pain he had felt. He barely so much as flinched. His body was still in shock from the strangulation.

“What did you do?!” The angel shouted into his ear.

Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to pass out just yet.”

Castiel’s hair was gripped tight and his head was pulled upright. Something hard struck his nose, and he listened to the crack as it broke. His tongue slowly tested the warmth on his lips. There was blood; so much blood. It was hardly a surprise anymore. Still, he opened his eyes and met the spiteful glare of the angel and the glint of the blade held in front of his left eye.

“Oh…” He murmured.

“Oh? Oh?! That’s all you have to say?”

“No… I… I’m sorry,” Castiel seemed confused by the prospect. Confused by how the word could be both heavy and meaningless at the same time.

“Perhaps a quick dunk might clear your head,” the angel suggested and gestured for Sophia to come closer.

Sophia hesitated but ultimately stepped over the cobblestone to an empty pail in the corner. She turned on the tap at the wall and stood waiting for the bucket to fill. She looked back at Castiel, her lips taut in a thin line, her eyes riddled with second thoughts she wasn’t quite daring enough to voice. Once the bucket was full, she carried it over. The second angel pushed Castiel’s knees down and parted his legs, giving her room to set the bucket down between his thighs. His arms suddenly fell slack as the cuffs were freed from the chains in the wall, and he was eased forward until his face hovered at the water’s edge.

“Let’s start small. Nice and easy,” the angel said gently. “Where were you when the angels fell?”

Castiel’s hair was clutched in a tight fist at the back of his head and his face was pushed forcefully down into the bucket and held there for countless seconds before being pulled out again. He had tried to hold his breath, but his lungs simply protested at the effort and his strained throat screamed. He hadn’t had time to recover and he hadn’t yet lost the sensation of suffocating. And he wasn’t about to lose it any time soon. They were making sure of it.

“G—gone,” Cas forced out.

“Gone, obviously. But where?”

“Winchesters…”

“The Winchesters. Always the Winchesters,” the angel scoffed, “also obvious. I should never have asked… but I wanted to make sure you’d cooperate. And I wanted to have a little fun.”

“Tabbris, you’re being excessive,” Sophia scolded.

“And you’re being soft,” the third angel said, stepping closer to Sophia so she retreated some ways back.

“I’m being reasonable, Purah. There’s a difference,” Sophia argued pointedly.

“I am well aware of the difference, and I know pity when I see it. You pity him. And that makes you soft.”

Sophia was cornered. She couldn’t help without proving them right. With a weak nod of her head, she surrendered and stood aside, clasping her hands neatly behind her back. She turned her gaze to the caving rooftop and remained motionless as Castiel’s head was once again forced into the water and held there for a minute.

Each time his head was lifted from the water and his body instinctively took another breath, his eyes turned to her. He resented his lungs each time they expanded. He hated his mouth each time it opened. And he loathed each breath that coursed through his windpipe. Why? Why wouldn’t he just let himself die? What good did it do to suffer like this; unable to help those he had wronged, and living the agony he had always feared? Every time his face went into the bucket and his nostrils filled with water, Cas willed his mouth to open. He silently begged to drown in the brief time the hand clutching his hair held still.

But Dean was waiting for him out there somewhere. Dean would be in his car, blind to the world speeding past as he drove too fast, his mind riddled by all his worst fears and his throat aching for boundless booze. And then, eventually, Dean would give up and go home. Home to the bed he and Cas had once shared. Home to the pillow and sheets that smelt like them. Home to the cassettes he’d never want to listen to again; tearing the tapes from their casings and pitching them into the fire of an empty pyre. Watching them turn to ash on the blistering wood, thinking how the absence of a body didn’t mean that nobody had died. Because Dean would know. And he’d think the worst: that Cas had taken his own life.

But… hadn’t he? How was this any different to suicide?

Castiel knew all too well what the angels would do to him; maybe not today, but soon. There had never been any other future for him in choosing to return to the angels, they were never going to forgive him or accept his return to their ranks. They were never going to call him brother, again. The angels didn’t understand the meaning of family, they only understood the cold brutality of slaying one another when one dared to love. Cas had only ever wanted to love humankind. He had fallen for Dean Winchester, in every way imaginable. There was no coming back from that; there never had been.

Castiel was sorry. He was so, so sorry.

“Please,” Castiel begged finally the moment his head was once again pulled free.

“You have no right to ask us _anything_ ,” Purah spat.

“What did you do to make the angels fall?” Tabbris asked.

Cas gazed up at Sophia who was rocking slightly back and forth on her heels. Her hair dipped in front of her eyes and she gnawed hard on her bottom lip. The hands at her back were now clasped in front of her, all her fingers wringing together anxiously. Her vessel was shaking.

With his hands still cuffed, Castiel reached out to her, his body folding to one side. He very barely touched her ankle before he was yanked upright and hit hard across the face. He slowly turned his head back. Sophia had flinched further away, retreating as if burned. Her wide eyes met Castiel’s and sought forgiveness. She didn’t understand, she had it already. He didn’t expect her saviour, just a favour… just one.

“Dean…” Castiel whimpered to her.

“That’s not what I asked,” Tabbris reproached. “Tell me, what did you do to make the angels fall?”

There was no point in answering. Cas could hardly explain the intricate workings of the spell even if he wanted to. And there was no hope in undoing it, there was no such thing. Cas knew that now. Maybe he had always known but denied it nonetheless. He could tell them and waste his breath on the meaningless words, or he could say his last words to Dean.

“Tell Dean I love him,” Cas said quietly, “tell him I’m sorry. I’m sorry that our forever was so short-lived—,”

His face was suddenly violently plunged back into the water and held there for a longer time. His broken nose hit the bottom and, with his eyes faintly open, he saw the water cloud red with his own blood. After that, he saw spots and the creeping dark edges as he began losing consciousness. His mouth, that had once refused to open, parted and flooded. As he tried to breathe, his throat and lungs filled. He felt heavy so quickly. His whole body was turning limp and the dead weight was heavy inside the confines of his vessel. It was suddenly a relief that his grace was gone, there couldn’t have possibly been room for it and death all at once. Castiel was breathing; drinking in the contents of bloody water and killing himself.

His only regret was leaving Dean.

His final words had been cut short.

“Stop it! Stop!” Sophia cried.

Castiel fell to his side, spewing the same water he had just inhaled. It poured from his mouth in waves and filled his throat, endlessly travelling the length of it to the broken cobblestone beneath his lips. He choked and breathed for all the air was worth and the weight that had already been crushing him hit him tenfold. It was almost worse to come back from that edge. It wasn’t the relief he expected. It was actually so much more. He had one more chance to finish the suicide note he should have written.

Maybe then Dean would have spent a lot less time looking for a dead man.

“This is cruel! And pointless!” Sophia argued, “You aren’t going to get answers out of him like this.”

“I’m starting to think we won’t get answers out of him either way,” Tabbris stood upright.

“He came here with the intention of helping us. If we just gave him a moment, I’m sure he’d try to do that.”

“You have no idea of his intentions, Sophia. Your naivety blinds you. Your pity blinds you. Your _weakness_ blinds you,” Purah circled her.

“My _kindness_ ,” she corrected, “I’m not a thoughtless beast.”

“What’s that you said about kindness? There’s nothing kind about insulting your brothers and sisters this way,” Tabbris stood at her back.

Castiel could only watch. He was too weak to move, lying motionless in a crescent; cuffed hands in front of his face, back curved and legs stiff. His mouth barely opened and closed, both drawing in broken breaths and trying to speak. Trying to tell them to stop, to say he was sorry, to offer whatever they asked of him, and to finish his message to Dean. It was hard to prioritise what came first. His mind was too lost to fathom the reality he had trapped himself in. He was both here inside himself and out there, drifting away into another life. As his voice freed itself and actual words passed his lips, he spoke only Dean’s name. It was the only thing he could say.

“Please just give him time. It does us no good to kill him yet. A little patience may work in our favour,” Sophia tried to reason gently.

Purah and Tabbris paused and looked to one another, considering her proposition. Watching, still only half there in the moment, Castiel knew what was to come. He had been an angel for an awfully long time, and he had done many great and terrible things. Castiel had killed, and sometimes he had liked it. He had become God and slaughtered in the masses, not just because of the power the name itself gave him, but because it had felt good. Castiel had always resented this intrinsic part of himself; the cruel part. He had since wondered where it had come from and why he had never been able to dismiss it in its entirety… and he knew now that it was an eternal part of him that existed in every angel of Heaven. Castiel was one of the broken few who recognised love and kindness and was able to nurture it. He had gone against nature to better himself.

It was in their nature to be cruel. No matter who to, and no matter what for. Heaven’s soldiers were expected to bleed but not to feel the pain. And they weren’t expected to love either, but they were ingrained to hate.

Castiel knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do but keep whispering Dean’s name and shut his eyes to the bright light of Sophia’s dying grace as a blade pierced through her heart from the front. Purah urged the blade in deeper and held Sophia’s chin in her hands, bathing herself in the same flash of white that momentarily robbed Castiel of sight.

When it returned minutes later to see Sophia’s lifeless body reflecting the dying body of Castiel’s, Purah was still standing over it. And she was smiling.

“Perhaps she had a point,” Tabbris mused, kicking Sophia’s arm aside out of the way of his stride.

“Maybe,” Purah allowed, bending down and forcefully moving Castiel into a seated position once more. She lifted his arms above his head and chained his cuffed wrists to the wall. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, not even to Heaven. “There’s no real rush,” she said, “besides, I quite enjoy hearing the funny sounds his lungs make when there’s no air in them.”

Tabbris picked up the bucket and emptied the tinted pink remains onto Castiel, drenching him in the same water that had almost killed him. He was bathed in it. The threat and promise of relief taken away and wasting away on his skin and clothes. Looking forlornly at Sophia and her flat eyes, Castiel wondered, despite everything, whether he deserved to die in her place. She had only tried to rescue him from his suffering. And, he was sure, she would have passed his last words onto Dean, ensuring the weight of each one carried and filled the voids in his broken heart. She would have done that for him. But he had failed her; failed her just as he had failed all of them and the Winchesters too.

Cas had failed Dean worst of all.

And Dean would never know he was sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, guys! Oof, so, uh, it's been a while. I apologise once again for the tremendous waiting period for this chapter and hope that its contents were the beginning of making it up to any of you who wanted to read this much sooner. I went through a long writer's block, during which the only thing I could do was start yet another story (a Stucky ship story. If anyone would be interested in one day reading this, let me know). I then had a minor meltdown, ran back to my hometown to gather myself, and then attended my third ever Supernatural convention. Very full schedule, so it seems. Anyway, please let me know what you thought of this chapter. Until next time: xoxo.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you enjoy this story.


End file.
